


Spun like Sugar

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU where Shiro isn't terrible at cooking, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Baker Shiro, Fluff, M/M, Sex, Shiro POV, Sugar daddy Keith, Versatile Sheith, Weddings, keith pov, lots of hand-holding bc I'm a weak bitch, mechanic keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 65,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Though Shiro is currently operating his fledgling bakery business out of a decrepit food truck he got for cheap in a repossession sale, he dreams of something more: a cozy bakery and cafe on a tree-lined street somewhere, filled with the smell of fresh coffee and sugar glaze instead of diesel. A little money could go a long way to helping him get off the ground-- and luckily, Keith has money to burn.Or: Keith takes care of Shiro’s financial woes, in exchange for a little sugar.





	1. sugar

**Author's Note:**

> amazing art for this fic courtesy of some amazing artists!  
> [super cute cupcake hippo art!!! by 0reocookies on twitter](https://twitter.com/0reocookies/status/1010069458264707072)  
> [cupcake Keith + sweaty Shiro -- damaredraws on twitter](https://twitter.com/damaredraws/status/1110978314397728769)

The afternoon air sits hot and heavy over the city streets, still thick with humidity from the quick thunderstorm that rolled through just an hour ago. No breeze winds its way through the towering offices and apartment buildings; there’s nothing to stir the leaves of manicured crepe myrtles or the limp flags hanging from the light-posts that line the sidewalks.

In a word: misery. There is no relief, and inside of the dilapidated food truck Shiro operates out of, it’s approximately one-thousand degrees worse.

It figures that the air conditioner would crap out on the hottest day of the year, to date. It figures that all Shiro has to hold the heat at bay is a flimsy paper plate made to serve as a makeshift fan. It figures that on this, of all days, he wore a white shirt so tight that it’s already soaked from collar to hem and plastered to his skin.

The sweat trickling down his back is a steady discomfort, and Shiro briefly, semi-deliriously wishes he’d gone the route of an ice cream truck. Or maybe gelato. Shaved ice. Sure, baking has been one of his chief passions since his teenage years, but he could get creative with ice cream flavors, too, and the thought of a freezer large enough to crawl inside of has its own particular appeal.

“Hey. You okay in there?”

 _A potential customer_.

Shiro tosses his fan-plate aside like a frisbee and tries to restore a little of his composure. _Tries_ , because he can feel the swamp-ass and beaded sweat along his brow, and it’s hard to muster eye contact with a stranger while being steamed alive.

“Hi, I’m doing great.” A rivulet of sweat chooses that moment to slide down the curve of his scarred nose and drip down onto his chest. “Can I help you?”

The guy standing at the window has his aviators sitting perched atop his head, pinning back long locks that might otherwise frame his face— and it’s a nice face. High cheekbones, dark eyes, and a stark prettiness to his overall look that calls to mind the striking beauty of barren deserts; or he looks like the kind of guy who might roadtrip across the southwest, at least.

There’s just a touch of redness along the highest parts of the man’s cheeks and a little dampness around the collar of his shirt, but elsewise he’s unaffected by the torturous heat, despite wearing black from head-to-toe. And he looks _concerned_.

“Uh, I’m partial to red velvet,” the customer says, thumbing his chin as he skims down the hand-written menu propped in the window.

“One red velvet cupcake, coming up,” Shiro says, soldiering on with a smile. There’s a moment of heavenly bliss as he opens the chiller and picks out the prettiest red velvet among the bunch, lingering just a second longer to let the cool, sugar-scented air waft over his sweat-slicked skin. “That’ll be three-fifty.”

“No air-conditioning?” Red Velvet asks as he fishes a wallet out of faded black jeans.

“It decided it didn’t want to work today.” And Shiro’s back to fanning himself with the plate, cute customer be damned. No point in trying to put on a brave face when he’s two degrees away from melting anyway.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Red Velvet stands in front of the service window as he takes his first bite, giving Shiro a front-row seat to his reaction. It’s not an issue, really— it isn’t as though there’s a line waiting behind him, and Shiro’s eager to hear some feedback. Something. _Anything_.

“This is really good,” he says before returning for a second bite. It leaves cream cheese frosting and a dusting of red sugar around his lips, and he’s thorough in licking the mess clean. “You could charge four bucks for this. Five, even.”

The color on Shiro’s cheeks isn’t all from the heat anymore. “Thanks. Maybe one day. Right now it’s all I can do to get anyone to come over and buy them, so…”

Red Velvet nods and leans back a little, still working on the cupcake as he peers up at the side of Shiro’s truck. He raps at the rusted siding with his knuckles, where the bottom corner of an airbrushed clown mural peeks out from under the handmade sign Shiro tried to obscure it with. “Probably because your truck is sketchy as fuck.”

“Probably,” Shiro agrees, his shoulders slumping. He thinks that’ll be the end of it— another justified comment on how bad his setup is, another lost customer— but Red Velvet sticks around like he’s curious for more. “The, uh, clown painting came courtesy of one of the past owners. Got it at a state repossession sale for cheap.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think people made meth back here.” Shiro glances around the narrow workspace. He’d cleaned it from ceiling to floor with a pressure washer before he added in the new refrigeration units and warming boxes, but the scorch marks down the walkway and up the back doors had never budged.

Red Velvet works on the last few bites of his cupcake, nodding along as if that reveal was to be expected. “Not gonna lie. From the outside, it still kinda looks like it could be a mobile meth lab.”

Shiro can’t do much else but hang his head, accepting that judgment. The careful placement of the sign had been a band-aid solution at best, and even now it's peeling at the edges. It turns out cheap paint and rusted metal don’t work wonders when it comes to adherence.

“Might be one again soon if this bakery stuff doesn’t work out,” Shiro jokes, before remembering that he’s not shooting the shit with Matt. “I mean— kidding, obviously. Sorry, that was—”

“You don’t look like the type to go Breaking Bad,” the guy laughs, his unriled demeanor immediately putting Shiro back at ease. “I wasn’t worried. Hey, could I snag a bottled water?”

“Of course,” Shiro says. It’s only as he rummages through the cooler for an icy one that he remembers that his body is dying a slow heat-death. A glance down reveals that his white tee has gone full-on _translucent_ , and Shiro grapples with the realization that he’s been holding a full conversation with a customer while looking like a wet t-shirt contest attendee.

He pops back up in the window with a cold bottle and a smile that he’s determined to maintain, despite his embarrassment. “On the house, for being so understanding about... all of this.”

“Nice.”

It’s only then that Shiro notices the wallet still in the guy’s hands, wedged between two fingers. He watches, puzzled by the entirely normal sequence of events as Red Velvet fishes out a crisp bill and stretches up to stuff it into the mostly disused tip jar sitting in the window.

“Oh, _wow_ , a tip?” His genuine excitement is too much, Shiro realizes. A little desperate and pathetic, but it’s been _so long_ since anyone has taken a chance on his admittedly creepy-looking truck, much less offered him a little extra for his troubles.

“For your suffering,” Red Velvet says, offering Shiro a lazy little salute. “And a really amazing cupcake.”

Shiro refrains from checking the tip jar until Red Velvet is well down the block, his lean, dark figure disappearing around a corner in a simmering blur from the heat and steam still radiating off of the streets. He turns the large mason jar around in his hands, peering through the slight distortion of the glass to make out the numbers printed on the bill, and nearly drops it upon realizing it’s a fifty.

 

* * *

 

Fixing the air conditioning costs about a month’s worth of rent money, but it’s worth it when Red Velvet turns up again three days later, in the gravel lot beside Olkari Park, waiting patiently in line behind the gaggle of children cleaning Shiro out of free samples.

“Hey, it’s my first repeat customer.”

Red Velvet’s hands are still deep in his pockets as he comes forward to the window, and his eyebrows lift into the dark shag of his loose hair. “I’m your first? Really?”

“Oof. Yeah.” Shiro winces, but it’s not as bad of a self-burn as he’d initially thought. Later than he’d have liked, sure, but it’s a nice little milestone, and he’s rather pleased that it’s Red Velvet he managed to hook.

The man makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere between a grunt and acknowledgment, and nods to himself before stepping forward and extending his hand up through the truck’s window. “Keith.”

It’s nice to have a name to go with the face. And the face is still _really_ nice, too. Today, Keith’s hair hangs loose, sections falling around intense eyes and framing a finely angled jaw. He’s wearing a leather jacket without even breaking a sweat, and Shiro envies his effortless cool.

“Shiro. Glad I didn’t scare you off.” Keith seizes his prosthetic in a firm but friendly handshake, smiling small but decidedly warm; under the fingerless gloves, his skin is tanned and his nails bitten within an inch of their lives. “Red velvet again, or are you in the mood for something new?”

“I think I ought to branch out,” Keith shrugs. He spends a minute looking over the day’s menu, but his dark eyes eventually slide their way back up to the man behind the counter. “What do you recommend, Shiro?”

“I’m usually into chocolate more than anything else,” Shiro says after a few moments of consideration, “but I’m pretty proud of how the strawberry rolls turned out this morning.”

“Then I’ll try that, if it’s okay.” He pulls out a few dollars and sets them on the counter before asking, “Do you bake them in there?”

“Oh, no. No, that would be a nightmare,” Shiro laughs as he grabs Keith’s order and tucks away the cash. “I have a friend who has a commercial bakery— she does wedding cakes and stuff for local grocers— so she lets me borrow her workspace at like, two in the morning, in exchange for running some deliveries for her. The truck’s just for making sales and building a customer base.”

“Gonna have a place of your own one day? Brick-and-mortar?”

“Well, that’s the dream.” Shiro leans on the counter, chin propped in his hand. His eyebrows lift high as he watches Keith bite into the strawberry cake, devouring half of it in one go. “How is it?”

Keith’s mouth is still stuffed as he muffles out a, “ _So_ much better than anything Hostess makes.”

Shiro can’t help but laugh, nose wrinkling at the unexpected praise. “Please, put that on Yelp.”

Keith gives him a thumbs up as he stuffs the rest of the cake into his mouth at once, claps the crumbs off of his hands, and then leans against the truck, right next to the open service window. “‘Little Debbie who? Baked with lots of love and absolutely zero meth, despite the truck’s sordid history. Would visit again.’ How’s that?”

Shiro rubs the heel of his palm across his eyes, still grinning. “Might be just what I need to break into the soccer mom market. Get some birthday requests.”

Keith hums in response, and the note strikes a chord that reverberates pleasantly down Shiro’s spine. “What kid wouldn’t want a… chocolate lion cupcake?” he says, reading at random off of the posted menu. A smile tugs one corner of his mouth. “Does it actually look like a lion?”

“It does,” Shiro answers with some reluctance, his head sagging forward. The animal theme had seemed like a fun idea at three-fifteen in the morning, low on sleep and high on sugar.

“Can I see?”

Shiro takes an extra moment to ensure he’s showing Keith only the best possible example of his handiwork, plucking up the finest lion of the bunch. It’s a fairly unremarkable chocolate cake, sure, but the effort’s in the frosting. A chocolatey, three-dimensional lion piped in careful strokes, its mane and finer features detailed in dark chocolate frosting; large, pearled sugar forms its eyes, and a careful dusting of shaved chocolate gives its fur some texture.

The reveal goes about as well as he could hope— Keith’s shapely eyebrows raising high again, his lips parting, a genuine expression of _aw, adorable_.

“You _made_ this?” And then, in the same breath, “Mind if I take a pic?”

“You can have it, if you like it so much,” Shiro says as he carefully sets the little lion onto the counter and slides it toward Keith.

“You probably shouldn’t be giving your product away for free,” Keith says, but he accepts the treat nonetheless. After taking exactly one photo, he starts in with his usual vigor, pausing only to give Shiro a thumbs-up.

“I’m pretty sure you paid for at least a dozen cupcakes with that tip from last time.”

“That’s not how tips work,” Keith mumbles as he peels off the wrapper to get at the cake itself, sending dark crumbs down the front of the white shirt under his jacket.

“Thanks, by the way.” Shiro stretches out his arms, his flesh-and-blood fingers laced with the aluminum and composite ones on his right hand. “It really made my day. My week.”

“No worries. Which reminds me,” Keith adds as he tosses his trash into the nearby can and reaches for his back pocket.

“You don’t have to.” Shiro suddenly feels warm despite the comfortable hum of the air conditioner. It’s a twofold thrill— that someone enjoys Shiro’s heartfelt creations enough to reward him, and the visceral excitement of having enough cash to treat himself to takeout. Maybe splurge on some good tea or invest in a new rolling pin.

“I’m aware,” Keith answers as he stuffs a crumpled bill into the empty jar. And then he’s taking his leave, backing away toward a sleek, cherry-red bike parked across the lot. “Thanks for the lion, Shiro.”

This time, he leaves a hundred.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve got, um… something in your hair. It’s red.”

The morning had been hectic. Between traffic and an unexpected— but entirely welcome, despite the chaos— rush of fieldtripping daycare kids ravenous for sweets, Shiro hadn’t had a spare moment for his thoughts. His attention had been fixed on his work and the steady drain of polite human interaction, and it was only when Keith was situated directly in front of the window that Shiro took notice of his most loyal customer.

“Red?” he asks, still a little breathless from the demands of the earlier crowd. He combs his fingers through his hair and they come away a sticky, syrupy red; a quick sniff test reveals the culprit. “ _Strawberry_ …”

Keith’s withholding a grin, but poorly. “Busy day?”

“Like a whirlwind,” Shiro laughs as he takes the dollar bills Keith hands him. It’s a good thing, being swamped with customers— even if they’re mostly kids with sweaty allowance money pulled from socks and lots of loose change. “What do you feel like today?”

Keith answers with a drawn, thoughtful noise as he peruses the menu. “Do you have anything salty-sweet?”

Shiro picks an oversized cookie loaded with salted caramel and crushed pretzels, dense and chewy with just the right amount of crunch. Keith is emphatic in his enjoyment, but then he’s never been otherwise.

“Is there anything you _don’t_ like?” he questions, squinting as Keith crams half the cookie into his mouth at once.

“Banana,” Keith says without hesitation, eyes on Shiro as he licks a spot of caramel from his thumb. “Hate it.”

“Even banana bread?”

“Especially banana bread.” Keith takes a big swig of the water bottle Shiro wordlessly hands him, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey, do you take requests?”

Shiro pulls a thoughtful little frown. “Can’t say I’ve ever gotten a request before. I’d be happy to take yours, though.”

“Well, first,” Keith sighs, leaning in to prop his elbows on the counter. He’s got to be standing on his tiptoes to reach. “It’d be nice if you had something to let people know where you’ll be parked for the day. It doesn’t have to be an app or custom website or anything, Shiro. A  twitter account would be fine.”

Shiro braces his hands along the counter, the metal of his prosthetic clinking against the less-than-stainless steel. “I know, I know. Believe me, Keith, I’ve tried. It’s just… a lot of hassle and frustration with my current situation.”

At Keith’s dry, mildly disapproving look, Shiro fishes his battered phone from his back pocket. The screen is currently a mess of cracks from an unfortunate incident in Coran’s gym (crushed by a chatty, flirtatious college student scooting back and forth on a rowing machine) and there’s not even a spare byte left for new apps or updates. That’s to say nothing of the battery life, but he can’t replace that unless he gets the screen fixed, too. Then there’s the dead speaker, and the bugs he’s grown used to since software support for the model ended last year.

“The last time I tried to open twitter, it got really hot in my hand and shut itself off for half an hour.”

Keith squints up at him, either in disgust or disbelief. “Jesus Christ…” He gaze flits from the spiderwebbed cracks across the phone to Shiro. “So, you need a new phone.”

Shiro shrugs. “I mean, it still works.”

“No,” Keith counters, shaking his head. “What you just described is something that the rest of society considers a non-functional phone.”

“It functions…”

Keith’s unconvinced, but he snorts and drops the topic. “Second request,” he says, holding up two fingers. “Can you do hippos?”

“Hippos?”

“Like the lion cupcake,” Keith clarifies, his face tinged with the faintest red. “But a hippo.”

“Hippo, huh? Is that your favorite animal?”

“Since I was a kid.” There’s a moment of hesitation before Keith offers more, his smile small and almost bashful. “My dad took me to the zoo in San Francisco when I was like, eight. One of the hippos had just had a baby, and… I don’t know, I was super into it. My dad got me this hippo plush from the gift shop before we left, and I carried it around with me everywhere for the next… three years?”

“That’s cute,” Shiro remarks, the slow spread of a smile catching at the corners of his mouth. He likes how Keith twists at the word and rolls his eyes, his pout too pronounced to be anything but a show. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be good, but I’ll make you the best hippo I can.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” Keith says, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He’s still a little pink across the tops of his cheeks, but he wears it well. “Don’t have cash for a tip today, but I’ll do you better next time.”

“You don’t have to do it every time, Keith. Especially when you’re dropping Ben Franklin in my tip jar. That shit can carry over for a few visits.”

“I admire your work,” Keith says with a little shrug. He lifts a leg and plants the sole of his boot against one oversized truck tire, sighing. “And I look forward to hunting down this diesel behemoth tomorrow.”

Shiro wishes him luck— and wishes he could offer to text Keith instead, but the state of his phone’s screen means that coherent typing is, at best, a distant dream. “I’ll have a hippo with your name on it.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh. I didn’t think you meant it literally.”

Keith grins as he turns the cupcake to view it from every angle, taking in the broad nose and tiny ears, the wide open mouth and its white chocolate teeth, and the name carefully iced in delicate red script just beneath its jaws.

“Is it too much?” Shiro spent damn near half an hour on this cupcake alone, and that was on top of the dropping by the library the night before to print reference pictures of hippos and sketch out a plan. Overkill, maybe, but it’s well-worth earning Keith’s heartfelt praise.

“No, it’s perfect. I love her.” One of Keith’s fingers lightly taps the frosting-hippo’s head, almost petting it.

Moments pass, and Keith's still fawning over the cupcake. “Are you going to eat it, or…?”

“Later,” Keith says, and it’s almost weird to see him holding something sweet in his hands without chomping away at it. “I want to take it home and show my family, first. Gonna hang onto her for a little while.”

Shiro chuckles as Keith again pats the cupcake affectionately. “You could keep it in your freezer like couples do with wedding cake,” he adds, one-hundred percent joking.

Keith tilts his head, maybe seriously considering it. “I guess… I guess I could do that. Yeah, maybe. Oh, and I have something for you, too. Don’t freak out.”

The warning is meaningless as Keith pulls out a sleek black box, the minimalistic branding catching Shiro’s eye instantly. It’s a new phone— brand new, not refurbished or picked up from craigslist— that Shiro knows is light-years beyond his budget.

“Keith… no, no, no, Keith, what the hell. This is too much.”

“That’s not all of it,” Keith replies, matter-of-fact as he stacks accessories onto the counter beside the new phone that’s easily over a thousand-dollars, retail. “It’s just the newest model of your, uh... brick. And it should work with whatever carrier you have, but let me know if you have a problem with it—”

“I do,” Shiro says, his shoulders drawing up. He slides the box back toward Keith, but seeing it so close to the precipitous drop from the service window makes him reconsider. “This is… I can’t take this from you, Keith. It isn’t fair.”

Keith’s not quite rolling his eyes, but it has the same energy. “It’s fair. This hippo cupcake,” he says, holding up the baked good like it was a tiny, precious baby, “is worth _this_ much to me,” he continues, sliding the phone and its accessories back toward Shiro. “It’s called the barter system.”

“There’s no way…” Shiro argues, shaking his head. It’s almost worth laughing over, except Keith looks so damn serious about it. “I can’t. You should keep it, Keith. You deserve it.”

“I already have a working phone, thanks. But, uh, if you don’t want this one, then I guess… I guess I‘ll just chuck it in that trash can over there,” he decides, lifting his chin in the direction of a steel city garbage can half a block away.

Primal fear of wastefulness lances Shiro through the gut. “You wouldn’t.”

Keith snatches the boxed phone before Shiro can do anything, making full eye-contact as he widens his stance and reels his arm back. “I played softball in high school. We went to state all four years.”

“Fine, fine, _fine_ , I’ll take it. Fuck,” Shiro huffs as Keith gently tosses him the phone, the smaller man smirking like he just pulled off the con of the century.

And in his hands, Shiro can’t deny that it’s amazing. It has easily six times the storage space his old phone did, and the thought of actually being able to take pictures and listen to music again makes Shiro more emotional than he probably should be. The last time he could afford to change phones was over four years ago, and even then the one he'd gotten hadn't exactly been new.

There's a belated gasp as he realizes that he can finally, _finally_ play Pokemon Go.

“This is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you,” Shiro says, unable to do anything at all about the heat spreading over his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. “I mean it, Keith. I really don’t know what to say.”

“Glad you like it.” Keith gnaws his lip for a moment, gaze drifting off down the street before sliding its way back to Shiro. “My motivations weren’t one-hundred percent selfless and pure, though.”

Shiro looks at him as he pops the packaging open. “Oh?”

“I was kind of hoping that I could give you my number,” Keith says, smoothing a hand through his unruly hair. “And maybe you could text me where you’ll be parked? I mean, tracking you down is worth the effort, but there are some days I don’t find you...”

“Oh. _Oh_ , of course, Keith,” Shiro says, grabbing a napkin and quickly scrawling his number across it. He’d never imagined that the days where Keith never showed, he was still out there _looking_ , hunting for Shiro’s ugly bakery truck and heading home with an empty stomach. “Text me anytime. It doesn’t have to just be about work or the truck.”

“Thanks.” After adding the number to his own phone, Keith folds the napkin with care and tucks it into a pocket along the inner lining of his jacket. “Same to you. I’m not too busy, so if you ever need anything, just hit me up.”

Shiro’s smile fades as silence stretches between them, awkward in a way they usually managed to avoid. He clears his throat and nods his head toward the hippo cake still held in Keith’s palm. “You want me to box that up for the ride home?”

“That’d probably be smart.” Keith passes the cupcake back to Shiro, who fishes out a thin cardboard to-go box and gingerly places the creation inside.

Once the precious cargo is secure, Shiro adds a few more cupcakes to fill out the box— it has room for four in total, and it seems a shame not to send Keith home with more to keep his custom hippo company. “Hope you don’t mind if I add a few extra?”

“No objection here,” Keith shrugs, “but I don’t want to take stuff you could be selling.”

Shiro laughs quietly as he folds the box into a neat close and fastens it with a piece of kitchen tape. “No need to worry. I always have more left at the end of the day than I know what to do with, so I’ve just been giving the leftovers out for free. Maybe it'll help boost interest, I figure. I give them out at my apartment complex, at the VA…  I even tried leaving some out at the gym, but as I’m sure you can imagine, most of that crowd isn’t too interested.”

“So… how much for everything you’ve got back there right now?”

Shiro blinks down at Keith, then at the various coolers and bins around him. “Everything?”

Keith shrugs, and it sends the strap of his loose tank on a precarious slide down his shoulder, baring a drool-worthy stretch of sun-tanned skin. “Yeah, sure. Give me all of it. You can pack it up and go home early, and no leftovers.”

“It would be... “ Shiro’s always been good with math, but the gears in his head refuse to turn. Keith’s clearing him out so he can pocket some cash and call it a day? Keith, handsome and gold-hearted, bailing him out again?

“Would three-hundred cover it?” Keith prods when it becomes apparent that Shiro’s brain has fizzled out, wallet already in hand.

“More than cover it,” Shiro answers, tongue and mind both sluggish still; he’s fortunate to have managed a response at all.

“Good.”

Shiro watches, wide-eyed, as Keith rifles his fingers through bills in his wallet— dozens of them, more than Shiro could break with all the ones and fives in his zippered money bag— and pulls out three-hundred dollars. He’s mostly stunned by Keith’s cool in it all, as if it’s entirely within the norm to buy ten dozen cupcakes, brownies and other assorted pastries, spur-of-the-moment. And to overpay for them, no less.

“What are you going to do with all these?” Shiro asks, still carrying a note of awestruck surprise. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands— or where to even begin boxing up so many things at once— as he stares at Keith, wondering for an answer.

Keith flashes Shiro a quick smile. “I work with kids at an after-school program. They’ll swarm on this like locusts.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks as he pulls tray after tray from the fridges and cases within the truck and arranges them on the narrow counter. “That’s incredible. You must be good with kids, huh?”

“They seem to tolerate me just fine,” Keith answers, bouncing in place on the balls of his feet. “You must be popular with them, too,” he adds as he folds his arms on the counter and leans into the window to watch Shiro work.

“Me? Well, yeah, kids love sweets,” Shiro agrees, thinking of the groups of children that would sometimes swarm his truck looking for free samples, undeterred by its shabby exterior, “but I never really know what to say or do around them. In theory, sure. In practice… awkward.”

Judging by the low, velvety laugh, Keith finds the thought of Shiro struggling to relate to today’s youth amusing. They make small talk while Shiro boxes up everything left in his truck— about the kids Keith volunteers with and Shiro’s job-juggling— and then Shiro helps carry half the boxes out to Keith’s car, parked a block away.

It’s a sleek number sporting the same cherry-red paint as his bike, with accents trimmed in white, and it looks like it cost more than Shiro’s entire net worth. The interior is black leather and smells distinctly of Big Red, and more than one crumpled McDonald’s bag sits in the backseat.

Shiro whistles low as he helps carefully stabilize the tower of sweet-filled boxes in the passenger seat. “Nice car.”

Keith’s smile is small, somehow shy even as it’s self-satisfied, as if he’d been hoping to impress without being obnoxious. “You should see it out on the track.”

He’s less imagining the car and more imagining Keith driving it. Friendly as he is, and kind as he is, there’s an intensity behind Keith’s eyes that probably lends itself well to hair-trigger decisions and gutsy stunts. The imagery alone is enough to give Shiro sweaty palms and a sticky feeling at the back of his throat.

“I can imagine. Just don’t go tearing around any corners while you have these,” Shiro cautions as he tenderly buckles the pastry boxes into the seat, as one might a small child. “Or you’ll be cleaning icing out of the floorboards for days.”

 

* * *

 

Another day passes by slow, the hours crawling by as another long lull in customers sets in. Business had picked up in the last couple of weeks— double what it used to be, as word-of-mouth helps coax people into approaching the crusty-looking food truck in the promise of fun and expertly baked sweets— but it’s still not quite where Shiro’d like it to be. Not where his bank account would like it to be, either.

But Keith helps fill the gaps.

Sometimes, Shiro can tell he’s coming by the peculiar beat of his boots against the pavement, or his unique cadence across gravel. He knows the silky purr of the engine of Keith’s polished red sports car, can pick out the soothing timbre of his voice amid the sounds of a lively park or busy city street. There’s even a special chime for Keith’s incoming texts alone, unique in its ability to make Shiro drop his work and check his phone.

The odd days where Keith has other obligations are slower. Dry. A little dark and disappointing, no matter how clear the skies or beautiful the weather. And then Shiro’s stuck with a dozen or two leftovers to pass off before they spoil or he resorts to eating them all himself.

This is a good day, though. He can tell by the shadow that stretches across the sidewalk long before its owner shows, and the sure-footed step that comes paired with long legs and more leather than the heat and humidity should allow for.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer…”

Keith’s smile is enough to make Shiro’s hands go idle and his thoughts still. It’s bright as the pink-tinge on his cheeks, despite how cool he remains in every other regard. “I bet you say that to all the guys who show up at the end of the day to buy you out.”

“Caught me.”

There’s something sultry about the way Keith laughs to himself, low and breathy and _just right_ to Shiro’s ears. “So, what’ve you got for me today?”

Shiro runs through the remains as he boxes them up for Keith. They’d long ago forgone the typical cardboard boxes used for regular customers, instead investing in oversized tupperware helpfully labeled with Keith’s name— as if Shiro might ever forget who it belonged to— that streamlined the packing process.

“A few Hokkaido cupcakes, rocky road cookies, some strawberry cupcakes, some taro swiss rolls—” Shiro glances up for a reaction, smiling as Keith makes the excited little gasp he’d been expecting, “and a few different kinds of buns. I’ll let those flavors be a fun surprise.”

“No banana?” Keith checks as he hands over a credit card and lets Shiro total it up.

“For you? Never.”

A considerable cash tip follows, although Keith long ago forsook the jar and now only hands his money directly to Shiro.

It’s too much. It always is. But it’s also what’s keeping Shiro’s start-up business scraping along and his head above water. Pride’s nothing in the face of looming rent and rising gas and a small mountain of medical debt, and Keith’s absolute warmth and genuine kindness help Shiro accept his gifts without it feeling too much like a handout.

“Business seems like it’s going well,” Keith comments.

“It’s picked up,” Shiro says, sporting a grin as he unties his apron before exiting the truck to help Keith to his car. It’s only a couple of boxes, and there’s no doubt that Keith could manage it alone, but it serves to let him spend a minute longer with Keith as they linger by his Porsche.

“I have a feeling you have something to with that,” Shiro chances, casting a glance at Keith as he pulls the door open and watches him load the boxes into the seat.

Keith folds his hands atop the curved edge of the open door and rests his chin on his knuckles, a wry smile playing across his lips. “They’re a big hit wherever I take them. Not like I’m going to keep my mouth shut when people want to know who made the best damn sweets they’ve ever had.” His lips press together for a moment, smile thinning as he works his jaw. “I’ll miss having you to myself, though. Don’t forget about me when you’re a world-famous pastry chef and you’ve got your own show on Food Network.”

“So, you’ve got jokes, huh?”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh.”

Usually, shooting the breeze beside Keith’s car devolves into Keith talking about whatever changes he’s made under the hood, tweaking the engine until its performance suits his liking. It’s stuff that Shiro doesn’t quite follow, despite having enough mechanical knowledge to handle basic engine maintenance and repairs, but Keith tries to make it listener-friendly. It’s nice, too, seeing him light up whenever Shiro asks a question about the work he’s put into it.

But this time, Keith doesn’t start in on auto talk to fill the silence. He idles with his legs crossed and his hip leaned against the chassis, thumb absently brushing over his own lip while he watches Shiro.

“You’re really good at what you do, Shiro,” Keith continues after a minute more of quiet consideration. “I know you’re gonna go places with it.”

It’s a sweet thought, and Shiro wishes he was half as convinced as Keith seems to be. “I’ve only done as well as I have thanks to a _very_ generous friend. Practically a business partner, at this point.”

His hand is on Keith’s shoulder before he can think better of it, and the worry of potentially alienating his most dependable customer and one of his favorite people all-around sets in too late. They’ve come into contact before— casual brushes of the hand, playful elbows and shoves on the way to Keith’s car— but nothing this direct, nothing this assumptive, and Shiro inwardly reels because he _can tell_ Keith’s particular about who and how he’s touched.

And to his moderate surprise, Keith doesn’t shy or wrest himself away. If anything, he rolls his shoulder into the pressure of Shiro’s hand, welcoming it.

“Business partner, huh?” Keith says, glancing up at Shiro from under his lashes.

“Financial backer, if nothing else,” Shiro hedges, relieved when Keith laughs along with him. When he draws his hand back, he misses the warmth under his palm; uncertainty returns in full-force, and Shiro has to know that he hasn’t overreached and spoiled the easy familiarity they’ve cultivated. “See you tomorrow? If that’s alright?”

Keith uncrosses his arms and gives Shiro’s bicep a little bump with a loosely curled fist, knuckles soft as they brush over scar-wrapped skin. “You bet.”

 

* * *

 

The ping from his phone is Keith. The next one is, too.

 

_Where should i meet you today?_

_If i come by around 5, would you want to hit a bar or something after?_

 

_Can’t today. Truck’s broke. :(_

_Been stuck in front of Allura’s all morning trying to figure out what’s wrong._

 

_oh_

 

And in fairness, Shiro should’ve realized that wasn’t the end of it, but he’s still caught off-guard when the familiar steps of heavy boots find him as he’s lodged halfway under his battered, rusty truck, flush with the trash-lined gutter and dirty asphalt.

“Hey, Shiro.”

“Keith!” Shiro narrowly misses smacking his head on the front bumper as he sits up. “Hey.”

“You should’ve told me earlier,” Keith chastises as he unclips the bag fastened around his torso and drops it onto the sidewalk. “I’d have ditched Regris hours ago.”

Shiro feels acutely aware of how filthy he is as Keith offers a hand and helps pull him to his feet. His back is damp with whatever is dripping from the engine onto the pavement, and the white tank top hiked up around his torso is crisscrossed with streaks of oil and grease from futilely poking around the engine.

Aside from the embarrassment of Keith seeing him in the worst state he’s been since their first meeting, all Shiro can think of is the nightmare that fixing the truck will entail— calling a mechanic out to look at it, or paying an arm and a leg to tow it to a shop that’ll no doubt require quadruple that fee to return his frankensteinian food truck to passable working order.

“Keith, I can’t ask you to—”

Keith’s hands find his shoulders, gentle even as they bodily shift Shiro two steps to the left and out of the way. “I’ll take care of it, okay?”

Taking care of it means calling someone qualified, in Shiro’s mind. In Keith’s, it means stripping off his jacket and prying up the hood to handle the problem himself.

Shiro watches, open-mouthed, as Keith pulls himself up to stand on the front bumper and studies the interior of the engine, the dark stain of grease gradually working its way up Keith’s wrists as he spends the better part of an hour examining the inner workings of Shiro’s livelihood.

Shiro can only stare, halfway entranced by the calm focus that settles over Keith as he gets his hands on the mechanical guts. He sips water and stands out of the way while he waits for the professional verdict, all of his attempts to contribute promptly shooed off.

“Well,” Keith sighs as he finally leaps down from the front of the truck, heedless of the oil on his hands as he goes to smooth back his sweaty hair and spreads it across his forehead in the process, “it would be quicker to tell you what _isn’t_ wrong with it.”

“That bad?” Shiro hands off his half-finished water bottle, and Keith accepts it with a grateful little sigh.

“I’m _amazed_ this thing’s lasted this long, Shiro. I can’t even begin to figure out where to start fixing it, between how shitty it was to start with and how you’ve jerry-rigged it to hell and back.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. I mean, I get it. It’s just— it’s not a good prognosis,” Keith says, his tone all consolation and sympathy, though tinged with disgust for the travesty happening under Shiro’s hood. “I’ll call my tow guy for you. If anyone can salvage this sad monstrosity, it’s my uncle.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Keith,” Shiro says, forcing a smile that doesn’t feel very convincing. Worry twists away in his gut as Keith struggles with the voice commands on his phone to place the right calls, his hands still a smudgy mess of oil and old engine grease.

Somehow, by the end of the call, Keith has dark smears across his nose and cheeks, too. Shiro isn’t sure which of them looks more of a mess now. “You’ve got a _little_ something right here,” he says, tapping the side of his own nose as demonstration.

“Here?” Keith immediately touches a dirty finger to his nose, adding another smear of oil to the growing collage across his face.

“Wow. You got it.” He flashes Keith a little OK sign. “All clear.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m about to clean my hands off on _you_.”

“Hey, easy,” Shiro laughs, arching back as Keith takes a lazy swipe at his middle. “Listen, I only live a few blocks away. Do you wanna come over and get cleaned up?”

It’s a resounding yes, and by the time they reach Shiro’s cramped apartment building, they’re both sporting more oil-stains than they started out with. Shiro has to wriggle out of Keith’s reach more than once while keying in his access code with one metal pinky as Keith looks to get even for the lopsided smiley face Shiro managed to smear across his cheek.

“Do you have any oil we can use?” Keith asks once they’re inside, his arms held aloft, suddenly vigilant about not spreading his mess another inch further. “Baby oil, emulsifying oil, sesame…”

“Uh, I’ve got some cleansing oil, but I’d rather not use this much of it. Kind of pricey per ounce. There should be a big tub of coconut oil in the bathroom already, though,” Shiro calls out while toeing off his sneakers by the front door.

Keith’s already smoothing coconut oil up and down his arms by the time Shiro joins him in the bathroom, using it to loosen the tough automotive oil stuck to his skin. He makes a quick pass over his face afterward, furiously rubbing his fingers over the darkest spots along his nose and forehead, and then beckons Shiro close. “Come here and I’ll take care of your face.”

Obediently, Shiro leans down and in, eyes slipping shut while Keith scoops out another handful of the solidified coconut oil and smears it down his nose, over his cheeks, dots it along his forehead. He expects the same speedy, no nonsense treatment he’d seen Keith apply on himself, but the gentle circles worked across his cheeks and along his jaw are anything but. It’s slow and sensitive and almost stubbornly thorough, as if it’s Keith’s personal mission to remove every speck of grime from Shiro’s face.

Keith works the oil up Shiro’s arm and across his collar bone next, and then the stray spots along his nape and shoulders from where he’d been lying underneath the truck. He uses a rag to carefully clean the metal plating along Shiro’s prosthetic, a fine mechanic’s eye helping him get every joint and seam.

They both end up hunched over the small sink at the same time, bumping hands and heads as they use cheap, artificially lemon handsoap to help clean away the grimey oil and the general smell of auto repair. It ends with at least two ruined towels for Shiro, but they’re at least ninety-percent oil-free at last.

Their clothes are another matter.

Shiro lets him borrow one of his shirts, since Keith’s own tee is stained up and down its front from his examination of the engine— and Keith has no qualms about changing tops right there in the living room. He’s efficient, grabbing onto the back of his top as he pulls it over his head, ruffling his hair up like an unruly mane; the new shirt goes on just as quickly, leaving a narrow window for Shiro to glimpse the wiry, slender body underneath.

It’s a little baggy on Keith, despite being one of the smallest and tightest shirts Shiro owns— something he picked up when he last visited the air and space museum, back when he had yet to do basic training and was two sizes smaller. The faded NASA print suits Keith well, he decides.

Shiro swaps his own dirty tank top for a softspun shirt that sits light on freshly scrubbed skin and throws on a worn pair of joggers, too.

His fridge has a variety of beer, protein shakes and fresh juice— and not much else. There’s old takeout and some pudding cups, and a hefty block of cheese he’s been taking a bite out of each day for breakfast; Shiro hides that in the crisper drawer before fishing out two bottles of his most decent beer.

“Want one? Or something else?”

He waits until Keith’s hand is wrapped around the bottle before carefully uncurling the aluminum fingers crooked around its neck. It’s only a split-second later that he realizes he handed it to him unopened. “Oh, shit, let me get that.”

The edge of the metal cap catches just right along the textured surface of his prosthetic thumb, and it only takes a flex of his finger to pop it free.

“Nice,” Keith grins, catching the loose top in his palm before it can fall to the floor. “I mean, I can open a bottle with my bare hands, too, but that was smooth as hell.”

“Thanks. I’m really trying.” Shiro only means to take a sip to start, but he ends up swigging down a third of his bottle on the first go. “It’s an improvement on lying in the gutter, right?”

Keith shrugs. “You almost looked like you knew what you were doing down there,” he says, a sly smile working its way across his lips. He cuts it off by taking another drink, eyes wandering around the sparsely furnished kitchen.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks. He hopes not, because there isn’t a lot to offer that isn’t two-day old cheese biscuits and peanut butter.

Keith straightens up and rolls his neck from side to side before answering. There’s a little furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking on it. “Yeah. It’s like a Pavlovian response, I think?” he says slowly, his head cocked to one side. “I see you and I get a real strong craving.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Keith nods back, not quite looking at him. “For something sweet.”

Shiro acknowledges that with a little rumble in the back of his throat. “Mm. That’s my fault, I guess.”

Keith continues to nod, solemn as he finishes off his beer. “Yup. I didn’t even have much of a sweet-tooth before you came along, with your fluffy cheesecakes and your oreo-core cupcakes…”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Shiro mutters, thinking of Keith’s record for taking down a cupcake (two bites) and some of his sugar-shock custom requests (like triple-stacked buttercream frosting cookie sandwiches). He finds a near-empty jar of hazelnut spread to tide Keith over as they lean against the countertops of his cramped kitchen area.

Keith grabs a second beer to sip in between spoonfuls of nutella, and they spend a few minutes debating the best uses of the creamy, chocolatey spread. Keith argues in favor of it as a dip for potato chips, and Shiro’s onboard until barbecue flavor gets thrown into the mix.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” Shiro asks when a lull sets in. They’re standing in his apartment day-drinking after Keith ostensibly dropped whatever he was doing to come help with the truck, and he can’t help but feel like someone in Keith’s position must have better things to do. “Not that I don’t appreciate the company.”

“I can set my own hours,” Keith says simply.

Volunteers with kids, sets his own hours, and blows at least a grand a month on a crappy bakery truck. Shiro prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue for a few long seconds. “I don’t want to be rude or pry or anything, but what is it you _do_ , exactly?”

Keith considers it. “I used to work in my uncle’s auto shop full-time, and for fun I’d mess around and rebuild engines, design new ones, whatever. While I was working on one for a bike, I made some new components that were pretty nifty, so I patented them, then sold the patents to Sincline Energy,” he takes a sip in between, “and now I do whatever I want.”

“That’s  _amazing_ , Keith. Sincline? As in, the one in the news…?”

“Same one. They’re using my work in those new hoverbikes they’re developing. The CEO’s son brought me on for some consulting work, too, so I got to take one of the prototype models out for a joyride. It was like flying,” he grins at Shiro, bright and high from the memory, “but _one_ little jump and like, ten different techs were screaming in my headset about it, so… Anyway, that’s how I suddenly got rich. I’m surprised it took you so long to ask.”

Shiro drinks to give himself an extra moment to absorb and assimilate this new Keith-knowledge. More and more, it seems so unlikely that someone so remarkable would’ve stumbled across him— would’ve given his old truck and chocolate lions a second glance, would’ve seen something in him worth chasing— but here he is, standing in Shiro’s kitchen and drinking his cheap beer and not looking the least bit disappointed about it.

“Well, you never asked about this, either,” Shiro says some time later, tapping the scar across his nose with a prosthetic finger. “So I didn't want to be the one to pry, but... but it’s been a few months, and I’m curious about you.”

“Same,” Keith says.

The corner of his mouth curls at the thought of Keith interested. Of him curious about Shiro, as if his humdrum daily existence is worth diving into. “So, what do you do with your free time? Since you can do whatever you want.”

“Uh… I started an after-school thing for kids in tight spots,” Keith starts, one hand going to rub at the back of his neck. “The one I told you about. So I spend a lot of time working with them and the school board and the local courts. Outside of that, I help out in my family’s auto shop sometimes, or drive out to the woods for a few days to go camping. Oh, and I chase a guy in a shoddy food truck who makes the best sweets in this and every other universe.”

It’s enough to send a flare of heat across Shiro’s cheeks, down his chest, sinking in deep to settle in the mess of his guts. He crosses his arms and lifts his chin a hair, humming as he fixes Keith with a quick squint. “And how do you know that?”

“A gut feeling,” Keith answers simply. He laughs to himself as he nudges Shiro aside from the sink to wash the spoon he’d used. “As in, I get it in my gut after I eat your chiffon cakes and honey-cream caterpillars. They’re _life-changing_.”

“Really?” Keith’s always so quick to build him up, and it still takes Shiro by surprise. “And hey, let me get that. You’re the guest.”

“No way,” Keith says, deftly dodging Shiro’s attempts to take the spoon and dish sponge from his hands. “I can clean up after myself. Move,” he warns, bumping Shiro aside with his hip until he’s certain there won’t be anymore interference. With a little look over his shoulder, he asks, “So, what’d you do before the bakery truck?”

Shiro grabs a dish towel for Keith to dry his hands and is thoroughly pleased to see him smile at the cutesy frog print. He’d bought a whole set like it the last time he visited his grandparents.

“Air Force. Didn’t really pan out,” he says under his breath, a low laugh following. He shifts his weight at the same time Keith does, or something like that, and they end up brushing close. “It’s how all this happened,” he explains as he rotates his arm for Keith to get a good look at the carbon-fiber base and aluminum plating. “Accident during a training exercise.”

Keith’s brows scrunch together and his mouth twists into a frown; it’s soft and empathetic rather than pitying, and Shiro appreciates that. “How long ago?”

“Three years. I was in the hospital for a long while, so I had some time to think about what else I’d want to do, going forward. Baking always made me happy. Calms me down when I’m stressing, too— that and working out. And as a bonus, I get to make other people happy, too.”

Keith’s eyes aren’t on him, but he nods along to the words. When he speaks, it’s so quiet that he leans in so Shiro can hear. “I’m glad you found something you love to do, Shiro. Just wish things had been… easier.”

“Me, too,” he says, chuckling after. When he notices Keith still eyeing his arm, he adds, “You can touch it, if you like.”

“You sure?”

If it were anyone else but Allura or Matt— and now Keith, officially on the short list of people he trusts— he’d say no. “Go for it. It was semi-experimental at the time, so it’s still pretty cutting edge. I have to calibrate it daily, but it was considered a big leap forward in terms of fine motor control, so…”

“It looks good,” Keith says, his touch light as he appraises the construction of Shiro’s arm.

It’s not as though Shiro has nerve endings anymore, but the prosthetic does a decent job of registering touch and sensation through a refined system of pressure plates lined across its surface. And Keith’s touch is… nice, even through sleek aluminum and textured carbon-fiber polymer. The slow stroke along his synthetic forearm is still enough to trigger something up and down Shiro’s spine, rattling nerves all the way up to his cortex; Keith’s fingertip tracing the fine articulation of his fingers feels _intimate_.

Shiro can’t do anything about the low half-moan that hangs in his throat when Keith skirts his blunt nails along the rather delicate cords of his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he’s quick to apologize. “No one’s really touched it since I finished physical therapy. I forgot that it can feel good.”

“I was wondering how well it transmits sensation,” Keith mutters, thumbing across a gleaming section of aluminum plating. He makes to pull away, but seems to think better of it; his fingertips linger on the back of Shiro’s hand. “Sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t. Promise.” He watches as Keith slowly brings their hands together, palm-to-palm, his slender fingers lined up against the longer and thicker prosthetic digits. If he were to curl his hand around Keith’s, he’d swallow it up, calluses and bruised-knuckles and all.

When Keith draws his hand back an inch, Shiro misses the pressure of it. The solid reassurance. The simple human contact, which is something he hasn’t been open to for some time. He might be touch-starved, because the bone-melting tingle that settles along his skin as Keith drags his nail across the textured polymer and aluminum of his palm is more intense than it has any right to be.

“What’s the temperature sensitivity like?” Keith traces where a crease should run— heartline or lifeline, Shiro can’t remember.

“Zero. I never need an oven mitt,” he adds with a wink. “As a baker, that’s a pro. Negative is that getting any kind of candy or powder out of the joints is a _nightmare_.”

Shiro’s uncertain which is more to blame for the thrumming in his veins and the flutter in his chest— the way Keith takes hold of his hand like he doesn’t want to let go, or the way he laughs at Shiro’s remark while he does it.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s working an extra shift at Coran’s gym when Keith calls and tells him to come by Kolivan’s mechanic shop on 17th Avenue as soon as he can. It’s a headache to find someone else to cover the front desk, and the twenty minutes it takes to bike to the shop are more than enough time for his brain to scour itself for worst-case scenarios.

He’s sticky with sweat by the time he pulls into the corner lot packed with parked cars, but it’s more from the nerves than the trip across town. With no idea where to leave his bike, Shiro carries it inside and leaves it propped against a wall by the desk that’s manned by tall, handsome man with a neatly trimmed goatee; the shop’s desk man is busy helping someone else, and so Shiro sidles past in search of someone familiar.

The garage is crawling with imposing men and women twice his size. Shiro knows they’re all part of the network of extended family and friends that Keith was largely raised by after his father passed away, which makes everything both a little more reassuring and a little more nerve-wracking. Through the general miasma of anxiety and financial doom, Shiro has the wits to wonder whether Keith inherited his smaller stature from his father or whether it just skipped a generation.

Keith finds him first, his expression grim and his march determined, and Shiro prepares for the worst.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Keith greets. As soon as they’re within arms’ reach, his hands settle on Shiro’s biceps to help brace him, as if the gory details might send him fainting.

Shiro relaxes a degree under the touch, wishing it could be more. He’d like to be cocooned in it when the final total is read. “Let’s hear the bad first.”

“It’s gone, Shiro.”

“Gone?” A swerve he didn’t expect. “Like, stolen or—”

“Kolivan said it was beyond saving. Or not fiscally feasible to save,” Keith says, correcting himself. “You’re better off getting a new truck. One without a criminal record.”

Judging by the way Keith rubs up and down along his arms, it was a comment meant to lighten the mood, in the same way his contact means to soothe. And it isn’t Keith’s fault that neither quite gels, because the knotted mess of anxiety nestled in Shiro’s gut is frankly indomitable.

“I could barely afford _that_ one,” Shiro mutters, eyes shut as he squeezes the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb, trying to quell the lightning-flash tension of a stress-induced migraine coming on. There’s a burn at the corners of his eyes, frustration manifesting in the pinprick sting of tears. “I haven’t even paid off the loan for it. Jesus, _fuck_. How much? How much to fix it anyway?”

Keith sighs. “ _Shiro —_”

“How much, Keith?”

“Way more than it’s worth as scrap. We’re talking well upward of ten-thousand just to get it running, and even then, it’s still a piece of shit.” Keith’s closer, uncertain even as he lets his hands lay across Shiro’s shoulders, smoothing back and forth over rigid, tensed muscle. “It’s not worth the investment.”

The words break heavy over Shiro, and his first instinct is to argue it more, despite knowing the truth in what Keith’s telling him. “Can I sit?”

“Yeah, c’mere,” he hurries to say, ushering Shiro to a long, metal bench in a relatively quiet corner of the garage. Keith stands guard over him, practically stradling Shiro’s knees, like a bulwark against anything else that might come as a blow to him. “It’s going to be alright, Shiro.”

“No,” Shiro says, a shaky exhale chasing the word. He tips his head back until his skull meets the painted cinder block wall, and when he swallows he can feel it stick halfway down the column of his throat. “I don’t see how it can be. Every day that I don’t have a truck to sell from, I’m losing money. I can’t afford _not_ to have one, and I’ve already sunk so much into the commissary fees and insurance and permits and — _shit_. Fuck me. Fuck.”

Keith’s rubbing soothing circles along the juncture of his arm, up the slope of his shoulder, and Shiro leans into the welcome touch. He wants to bury his face against Keith’s front, or the crook of his neck; he wants those arms slung around him and that voice in his ear, telling him things will be okay even as his life spirals out of his control once more. Instead, he hides behind his hands and hopes that earth will cut him loose and eject him into space, where his debt and credit score cannot follow.

“You didn’t let me tell you the good news yet.” Keith’s whispering, leaned in so close that his breath warms Shiro’s skin.

Shiro moves one of his hands just enough to look up at Keith, peeking between a tangle of fingers. He laughs, low and hollow and disbelieving; he’s worn through, and almost too tired to engage Keith in whatever pick-me-up he’s trying to put on. “How can there be good news?”

“Trust me.” Keith’s gentle as he pries Shiro’s hands from his face and works their fingers into a loose lacing. He pulls at Shiro until he’s back on his feet, too, and then leads him down a wide hallway to a much smaller adjoining garage.

It’s dim and quiet, other than a massive box fan that’s running to circulate air through the room. Machinery and towering tool cases line the walls, but there’s no one else but the two of them in here. Just the two of them, and a behemoth food service truck that looks like it was just driven off the sale lot.

It’s painted a clean, fresh black, glossy all over and detailed in gleaming chrome, with nary an airbrushed clown to be seen. There are clean mudflaps and a built-in awning over the service window, and the hubcaps are so polished that Shiro can see the reflection of his legs from the knee down. The AC unit on top is sleek and new. _All_ of it looks new — and the sticker still sitting in the window and missing tag testify to that. No balding tires, no rusted patches hastily covered with spray paint, and _both_ side mirrors are intact.

It’s a thing of beauty.

Shiro recognizes the make and model from hours of wishful research. It hardly gets more top-of-the-line, and this truck— plus all of the appliances inside— must market for four or five times what he paid for his. Close to a hundred grand, or maybe more, depending on what extra options it has.

“Whose is this?” Without thinking, he runs his hand along the side, marveling at the feel of cool, sleek metal that isn’t coated with flaking paint. His fingers come away clean of rust and other colored flecks.

“Mine for now,” Keith says, unfazed as Shiro whips his head around to stare at him. “Yours, if you like it.”

Shiro can’t form the words for what he feels, all of it too sudden and intense for him to do anything but grapple with: the emptiness in his lungs, as if he’d been sucked into the vacuum of space; the dreamy disbelief that buzzes under his skin and leaves his head fuzzy; the naked shock and wonder that leave his tongue paralyzed for a lengthy stretch of time.

“This? Mine? _Keith_.”

Keith’s always been a little much, a little extra, but this leaves Shiro’s legs weak. He leans heavily against the truck for support— the truck worth more than twice what he makes in a year, holy shit— and hopes to the heavens that he doesn’t actually collapse. Keith’s seen him lying on the ground in pooled grease enough for one week.

Without a word, Keith is there at his side, quicker than Shiro can even register. His attempt to stabilize Shiro results in pinning him bodily against the side of the truck, a knee angled between his legs to keep him from sliding down any further.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, hands wrapped around the joints of Shiro’s elbows to help keep him upright. “Can you breathe? You can breathe, right?”

“Yeah,” Shiro sighs out, regaining a little of his composure but absolutely none of his dignity. He can’t quite straighten back up with Keith so close, wedged between his legs and flush against his front while the cool steel siding of the truck presses firm against his shoulder blades. He’s also acutely aware of the thigh pressed against his groin, but that sensation’s playing second fiddle to the borderline hyperventilation.

“Are you okay now?”

Shiro realizes his hands are wrapped around Keith’s waist, curled into the fabric of his loose red tank. He isn’t sure when they got there, either. “Fine,” he says, swallowing under the intensity of Keith’s concerned stare. “Just recovering from the emotional whiplashing of a lifetime.”

“Little bit dramatic,” Keith mumbles as he slowly eases off of Shiro, leaving a whole six-inches of space between them.

Shiro blows right in his face, sending the hair hanging across Keith’s nose flying for a moment. “Dramatic? _Dramatic_?” He raps his aluminum knuckles against the sleek and shiny surface behind him, the sound reverberating through high-quality steel siding. “What do you call this? Keith, you can’t just... ”

“Give you exactly what you need?” If Keith could dig his heels into the solid poured concrete under their feet, he absolutely would’ve. He’s a wall before Shiro, almost angry-looking as he leans in and waits for a challenge.

Shiro rubs at his eyes with his flesh-and-blood hand and takes a deep breath; it’s difficult to think straight, and not only because Keith is looming less than a foot in front of him. “You don’t just _give_ people stuff like this,” he murmurs. “I can’t take it from you, Keith.”

“Why not?” Keith’s fierce when his jaw is set and his chin’s lowered, like he’s ready to make a charge. He stares up at Shiro with a look that borders on the flesh-melting glare he once gave to a customer who dared to complain about Shiro’s cheesecake. “And you wouldn’t be _taking_ it if I’m _giving_ it to you.”

“What kind of friend would I be?” Shiro asks, refusing to wilt under the intensity of Keith’s full and determined focus. He’s too kind by half, all heart packed within a frame that can scarcely contain it. “Leeching off of you like this? You’ve already given me so much already—”

“Because I wanted to,” Keith interrupts, his look turning pleading. His slender hands press against Shiro’s front, palms sweaty-warm through the fabric of his faded henley. “Because we’re friends. Because I want you to be happy, and I like being the one responsible for it.”

“It’d be selfish,” Shiro protests, “and I’m already selfish enough when it comes to you.”

Keith groans and collapses in, his forehead thumping into Shiro’s chest and his face squished between his pecs. “ _I’m_ the selfish one,” comes out muffled. “It’s as much for me as it is for you.”

It’s too tempting. It feels too right. Shiro wraps his arms loose around Keith, holding him fast, hands laced together at the small of the man’s back. When he sighs, it sends the little unruly tuft at the crown of Keith’s head wavering.

“You’re the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever met. The furthest thing from selfish I’ve ever known.” In his arms, Keith is solid reassurance; a grounding weight to keep the worst of Shiro’s worries at bay, and his trust is worth more than anything money could ever buy. “And I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

“You aren’t. Money’s there to be spent,” Keith says, turning his head so that he can speak freely, his cheek pressed to the swell of Shiro’s muscle. “And I like spending it on you.”

Shiro blinks slow. He isn’t sure which of them started rocking, but they’re looped in a gentle and soothing sway, still wrapped tight around each other. And Keith’s _warm —_ hot-blooded and a little damp along his back, his skin still flushed with red— against Shiro in ways and places that prove distracting. It gives him the same feeling of sticky, drowsy comfort as a late summer morning spent lingering under a heavy comforter, safe and insulated.

It makes it hard for Shiro think of anything but how good it feels to have Keith so close, much less muster an argument that might push him away.

“Why?”

Keith shrugs his shoulders, and the moment of friction between them feels like the crackle that preludes a jump of electricity. “You deserve to have your dreams come true, and I want to help. Indirectly, or whatever, but— still in your orbit. It’s the least I can do.”

The _least_ he can do is bankroll Shiro’s dreams. It’s still too much to bear, a show of kindness that’s enough to take Shiro apart; holding onto Keith is all that’s keeping him from spilling apart across the garage floor. “Keith, I have no idea what to say…”

As if in deep contemplation, Keith hums. “Try, ‘Wow, Keith, thanks for the cool truck that didn’t used to be a meth kitchen. I graciously accept. Will you give me a tour?’”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, and all the gratitude he pours into it isn’t enough. They untangle slow and reluctant, settling for clinginess and hip-to-hip closeness in lieu of a full embrace. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Damn, look at that bumper— it’s not even held on with zip-ties.” He smooths his hand over the chrome, admiring the glint, and smiles at Keith. “Care to show me around?”

“Love to,” Keith says, color blooming bright across his cheeks and up to his ears. He starts with the engine— of course, because Keith— and rattles off specs and model numbers that Shiro doesn’t know quite what to do with, other than smile and nod. The tires are heavy-duty with nary a patch-job to be seen, and the gas mileage printed in the window promises higher efficiency than the old one could manage on the best of days— it’s a low bar to beat, though.

And then Keith pulls open the driver’s side door for Shiro and gestures for him to try out the seat.

“Oh my God.” It’s plush and comfortable, and there’s _lumbar support_. No metal poking through the cushion to jab him between the ribs, no faint smell of amonia, no broken AC vents or cracks in the windshield. “This is more comfortable than any chair I own. It might be better than my mattress…”

“Mhm,” Keith affirms, nodding. He steps up onto the sideboard to point out a few features Shiro’s unaccustomed to— the heated seat, fuel conservation mode, the built-in GPS and backup camera. And then he taps along the door. “And check _this_ out.”

“Power windows,” Shiro whispers, joyful at the sight of that single button— and at the conspicuous lack of a stubborn hand-crank.

“ _And power locks_ ,” Keith whispers back, looking entirely too smug as Shiro oohs and aahs over basic functionality. “Why don’t we take a look in the back, too?”

It’s bigger than the kitchen in Shiro’s apartment, and better furnished. Not only is the floor scorch-free and polished underneath the ergonomic rubber safety mats, all of the appliances are top-notch. Pristine counters, temperature-controlled storage, a new stand-mixer and a neat little chalkboard for the menu— everywhere Shiro looks, there’s another little hint of how much thought Keith put into it.

“It’s more than I could’ve dreamed of, Keith. You have no idea how grateful— I mean, I don’t know what I’d do without you, and— I owe you more than I can ever repay.” Shiro licks his lips as they wander back out to the cab of the truck. He rumbles out a laugh when Keith elbows him and points out the fuzzy hippo plush sitting on the passenger side dash. “But I’ll try.”

Keith’s quick to shake his head back and forth, resolute. “Don’t bother. I won’t take a cent from you.”

“Then I’ll do it some other way,” Shiro says, shrugging as he strokes along the truck’s hood. He allows himself a little excitement, despite some lingering doubts. He can imagine rolling up to block parties in this, with his logo painted on the side and some string lights for ambience. He can picture it perfectly, and it’s better with Keith in the shot, too. “Anything you want.”

There’s a weighty beat before Keith responds, his breathing a little hitched. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Shiro repeats as he saunters back toward Keith. He didn’t expect Keith to take the bait— small miracles— and he’s not going to let it slip by without snagging an idea of how to show his appreciation. “Free cupcakes for life. Donuts on the daily. Whatever weird flavor combos you want to try. All the frosting hippos you could ever eat. I can come over and cook you breakfast. Or dinner. Or swing you a gym membership?”

Keith smiles unevenly, lips sealed tight, slow to meet Shiro’s gaze.

Jesus, his poker face is abysmal. “Please talk to me, Keith. If there’s something you really want, tell me before I default to an army of hippo pastries. I mean, I’m going to do that anyway, because it sounds amazing now that I've said it out loud, but I still want to know what’s actually on your mind.”

Keith gnaws at his lip first, some internal debate raging inside of him, gaze resting some twenty feet behind Shiro. When he finally opens his mouth it’s halting and uncertain, and he spends a long moment scanning Shiro’s face for something indeterminate.

“Well. Not to go full sugar daddy or anything,” Keith drawls slow, each word careful, his face growing redder by the second, “but…”

“ _Oh_.” Oh. It’s a surprise, kind of, but a pleasant one. Flattering, too, when Shiro’s pretty sure Keith could win over anyone he wanted with just a look, a touch, a minute of conversation. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Keith’s face falls quicker than a ruined souffle. “No— I mean, only if you wanted,” he stammers out. “And I was just thinking a date, I swear—”

“A date would be nice,” Shiro interrupts, wanting to halt Keith’s surging panic. “To start with, at least.”

The other man’s relief is palpable. Every line of his body loosens, tension evaporating from the taut muscle housed under his red tank and loose sweatpants.

Shiro runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth for a second, working up courage by the passing second. Keith’s into him, _really —_ he wants more than just overlapping afternoons and the occasional drink at a bar, and he’s shy in even asking for that much. It’s sweeter than he can almost stand, seeing Keith so lit up over something he could’ve had all along.

Shiro hums to himself. It’s a red-letter day, after all, and he might as well go for broke. “Making out would be pretty nice, too,” he suggests, gaze darting across the empty garage to check the doorway they’d entered by. Carrying voices and the whirs of auto repair keep him on edge. “And a little more… immediately gratifying.”

Keith’s eyes— deep and smokey dark, tinged with that cool violet-blue— fix on Shiro’s, something as kinetic as a roiling storm resting just behind them. He’s silent, and briefly unreadable, aside from the blink-and-miss-it flex through his throat.

And then he’s on Shiro in a heartbeat, momentum carrying the both of them backward until Shiro’s shoulders slam into the unyielding steel of the truck’s broad side, almost hard enough to bruise. Keith’s smaller frame belies a strength that suddenly has Shiro curious about him as a sparring partner— he’s quick, forceful, formed of lightning instinct and a keen sense of how to twist his body and where to apply pressure and—

 _Oh_ , Shiro likes it. Likes the solid heat against him, the jut of hip angled against his front, the insistent hands that can’t decide where they want to be. Likes Keith with his reservations thrown by the wayside. It’s overeager and sloppy, all desperation to get his lips on Shiro’s and their bodies as flush as the physical constraints of this reality will allow, and that’s a mood Shiro can get behind.

There’s a harried roughness to the way Keith moves against him, like he’s afraid the chance won’t come around again, and it carries into the way he kisses, too. Raised up onto his toes, no doubt, his hands fisted in the fabric along Shiro’s shoulder-seams to draw him down and in, not a single moment of hesitation once he’s committed to the act. And it’s bliss where they meet— sealed against lips silky from Keith’s honeyed chapstick, noses brushing close, and Keith’s hair tickling along his forehead.

The satisfaction is short-lived, however sweet it is. Like a single lick of chocolate after staring at a three-tiered ganache cake for hours on end, it does nothing to quell the craving that’s been building in them for more weeks than Shiro cares to count. Shiro’s the first to move his mouth and work their angles, but Keith’s the one who introduces tongue and teeth to the mix; from there it’s an adrenaline-heavy haze of love bites and licks and a back-and-forth that neither of them is willing to de-escalate.

Until Keith’s fingertips dip along the edge of Shiro’s waistband, begging permission that Shiro would be keen to give if they weren’t just one room removed from Keith’s extended family, any one of whom could probably lift Shiro overhead and toss him into a dumpster.

“Easy, soldier,” Shiro gasps as he arches his back, pressing up against Keith; it helps stop the metal from digging into his shoulder blades, sure, and serves the ill-advised dual-purpose of inciting friction from sternum to hip. “Let’s keep it above the belt for now.”

“Sorry,” is the reply, coupled with an apologetic kiss pressed to Shiro’s reddened, hickey-marked throat. Keith’s hands smooth upward, over the dips and curves of Shiro’s abdomen and chest, until he can idly tease at his nipples through the light fabric of the henley.

“You’re fucking strong,” Shiro remarks before he can forget about it, lost again in the vision of Keith mussed and keyed up, the temptation of his hands at work. He strokes up Keith’s side to the joint of his arm, around to the bare, sinewy bicep that flexes under his fingertips. “You must be good at hand-to-hand.”

“I am, thanks,” Keith says, words shaky through the breath he hasn’t quite caught. “Sorry about— I kind of slammed you, didn’t I? I don't usually— I was excited—”

“You’re fine,” Shiro smiles, knowing it must be crooked and flushed dark from Keith’s enthusiastic nipping. “I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Keith quietly moans as he slips his arms up around Shiro’s neck and leans in, all of his weight resting against the bigger man’s front. His exhale burns hot across Shiro’s collarbone. “That’s good…”

Shiro buries his nose in Keith’s messy locks, a lower-pitched hum settling deep in his throat as he takes in the smell of juniper and fresh sweat. “Makes me want to take you to the mat. I bet you’d give me a good run for my money.”

“Nah. I’d straight up waste you,” Keith responds, plain as if it’s a simple fact— which it might be, if he honed his hand-to-hand skills against the well-built relations they passed on their way in here.

Shiro’s still laughing as he lays his lips on Keith’s once more, already missing the heat of his mouth. His arms are wrapped tight around Keith’s slim waist, and he gives a little squeeze just because he can. “That’d still be fun.”

Keith’s eyes flutter shut as Shiro’s words carry across his skin, so close that his lips catch against the slope of Keith’s cheek. A smile works its way over his mouth, curving in delight as Shiro’s hand runs down along the dip of his lower back, before it soon after fades into something borderline somber.

He stretches up close to Shiro’s ear. “I don’t want you to think this is an obligation,” he murmurs against his skin, some uncertainty creeping back, “or that anything I might give you is contingent on you doing things you don’t want. You don’t owe me shit.”

Shiro plants his hands on Keith’s hips and guides him back down, eases him just far enough back that he can look him square in the eye. Cupping his hands around Keith’s face, thumbs stroking light over the peaks of his cheekbones, he dips far enough down that their noses nearly meet.

“I’d want to do this with you, regardless.” No room for Keith to harbor doubts, he hopes, if he’s plain and clear up front. He darts to press a quick, chaste kiss to Keith’s temple for good measure. “Listen, you could’ve asked me out, day one. You know? I’d have said yes. I was a disgusting goddamn mess, but I’d have said yes.”

“A mess?”  Keith snort-laughs and shoves him playfully. “Jesus Christ. A _mess_? Shiro, do you have any idea how you looked to the average passerby?”

“Like a dying man? Human puddle?” His helpful brain switches tracks on the fly. “Did you ever watch that show with the girl who could turn into goo or whatever? Alex Mack? Before your time, maybe—”

Keith ignores the derail like a champ. “You were a walking, talking wet-dream. Tall, handsome, hair slicked back, all sweaty, perfect jawline. Super nice and approachable, but jacked as _fuck_. Shiro, I could count your _individual abs_ through your shirt…”

“Really?” It’s a genuine surprise, and a pleasant one. Better than being remembered as the poor soul melting in a rusty tin can. “Well, you played it cool, cause I had no idea you— wait. Did you only come to my truck because you thought I was hot? Not for the pastries?”

“Well, like ninety-percent of the population, I was taught me never to approach strange, sketchy vehicles offering me sweets,” Keith teases, his little sliver of a smile wry as he pokes his way down Shiro’s sculpted torso. “Be glad I made an irresponsibly thirsty exception for the guy who looked like he’d just won a wet t-shirt contest.”

“Aw.” Wonderful as Keith has always been for hyping up Shiro’s baking, he’s even better for a personal ego-boost. “You think I’d _win_?”

Keith’s gaze dips down for a half-second, apparently making a visual confirmation. Then he nods to himself, jaw setting stiffly. “Absolutely. I’d put money on it.”

A low and impatient grunt from a few yards away turns Shiro’s blood to shaved-ice slush and stops his heart beating. Two men— some of the largest, broadest Shiro has ever seen, and that’s including the professional weight-lifters that frequent the gym— are watching with the hard, hawk-eyed discernment of family sussing out the worth of a suitor.

 _Ah_. And Shiro’s hands are currently settled on Keith’s hips — dangerously close to ass territory— while Keith’s frozen in the middle of cupping Shiro’s left pec.

All panic-driven instinct, Shiro attempts to jump back and put some distance between himself and Keith, forgetting that he’s already more or less pinned against the new food truck; all it gets him is a swift bang across the back of his skull and probably a bruise across his shoulders.

“Keith,” the shorter of the pair— still at least six-four— addresses, stone-faced and chill-toned. His greyed hair is neatly braided, its long coil draped over his shoulder with care. “And you must be the Shiro we’ve heard so much about.”

“Good things, I hope,” Shiro says as he bites the bullet and takes a few steps toward the intimidating duo, with Keith clinging to his side all the while.

There’s a little twitch along the man’s eyebrow in response, but he takes Shiro’s offered hand in a firm but warm-spirited shake. “You may call me Kolivan, and this is Antok. We merely wanted to return this to you,” he informs, gesturing to the even larger man hovering at his shoulder, all silence and piercing gaze.

Antok’s unreadable for a moment— the industrial paint respirator-mask covering more than half his face plays a part in that— before he turns around the square of cheap plywood in his hands and presents it to Shiro. It’s a small corkboard from a hobby store, bare but for two poorly lit photos and angry frowny faces drawn around its border in black sharpie.

Shiro brightens. “My banned customer board!”

Kolivan nods as Shiro gratefully takes the board from Antok and clutches it to his chest. “It was still in your… vehicle,” he says, heavy-hearted as he’s forced to recall Shiro’s piece-of-shit truck. He folds his hands behind his back and adopts a stance that reminds Shiro of old military command. “Regris suggested it might still have some value to you, so we salvaged it.”

“It does,” Shiro sighs, pleased to be reunited with the tiny photo collection. “I thought I’d just misplaced it when I was clearing out my stuff, but... wow, thank you. And not only for this, but for everything you’ve done. It won’t come close to making up for the trouble you’ve gone through, but I’d love to bring by some cupcakes and other treats to thank you and your team.”

“You are welcome.” The corner of his mouth moves, and it might be the first hint of positive emotion Shiro’s seen from him yet. “And I am certain that the crew would appreciate the gesture. Your hippo was very popular.”

Shiro’s left to process that unexpected feedback as Kolivan turns to Keith and exchanges words in another tongue, low and soft with affection. In the meantime, Shiro presses his lips together and tries to focus on anything but the fact that Antok is silently staring him down, seemingly without blinking.

Kolivan settles his brief conversation with Keith with a quick hug and acknowledges Shiro with a little nod before he turns to leave. “Take care, Shiro.”

“Be safe,” Antok rumbles through his paint mask, the words a little distorted as they pass through the respirator. He steps forward and closes a giant hand around the top of Keith’s head, ruffling his hair in one efficient motion before stalking off after Kolivan, his broad shoulders turning as he passes through a doorway meant for non-giants.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiro mutters as he watches them go. He’d love to see a family photo, with Keith front and center amid the relatives that seem to have soaked up all the genes for Big.

Keith’s still hung up on the board in Shiro’s hands. He siddles close and cranes his neck to get a look. “You banned people? _You_. Banned people?”

“Just two, so far. Not like I can do anything but refuse to serve them,” Shiro shrugs. He turns the board around so Keith can observe as he points at each of the pinned picture in turn. “Drunk dude who started pissing on one of my tires, then sprayed the side when I yelled at him to stop. And the lady who spat at me when I told her I didn’t have any bagels.”

“Assholes. Fucking unbelievable.” Keith crosses his arms tight, like it’s the best he can do to restrain the angry energy the mere thought has generated.

“Life in the city, right? So glad Regris found this. Might’ve missed these fuckers,” he grumbles, turning the cheap pinboard around in his hands. “Hey… is the truck still nearby?”

Keith cocks his hip and gives Shiro a nod. “Kolivan’s got it sitting in back-lot C.”

“Is that like automotive death row?”

“Pretty much.” Keith smiles, but it’s tentative, and he watches Shiro with kind and concerned eyes, as if waiting for the barest sign of his unhappiness. “Do you want to go see it one last time? Say goodbye?”

Shiro props his little corkboard of rude-ass customers on the new truck’s bumper and then straightens up. “Yeah. If you don’t mind, I think I would like that.”

The walk to the back lot is just long enough for Shiro to belatedly realize he’s a love-bitten mess, his hair swept askew by Keith’s carding fingers and his neck smattered with marks where Keith staked his claim. He only notices when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a sheet of reflective chrome on the way, cursing low when he thinks of how he must’ve looked to Kolivan and Antok. A sliver of Keith is visible, too, and Shiro doesn’t miss the smug smile he’s sporting.

The sun’s high and scorching above when they reach the old, dilapidated service truck that Shiro had first pinned his hopes on during that repossession sale. It’s parked not too far from an industrial-sized dumpster, stripped bare of everything Shiro had done to soften its crudeness. Even his sign’s gone, revealing the airbrushed clown monstrosity plastered across the side. In the harsh light of day, it’s an abysmally sad picture.

Keith sways his hips, bumping gently into Shiro’s thigh. “We could give it like, a viking funeral, if you wanted. But I think that’s probably bad for the environment. And the fumes would be carcinogenic, most likely.”

“Hm. That’s okay. It’s a cool idea, but I think this thing’s a little cursed,” Shiro says as he pats the side of the wretched truck. A little rust and paint come away on his hand, which he brushes off along his leg. “I think it’s the clown...”

Keith nods, his lips curling the barest bit. “I definitely liked it better with your sign taped over its face.”

Shiro had forgotten just how terrible the airbrushing was, how hollow the eyes were as they bored down on anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves parallel to the truck. “I trust Kolivan to do what’s best for it. Resell it, maybe, or scrap off the usable parts. Whatever helps you guys recoup some of the costs…”

Keith’s quiet for a few moments. His head turns slow, incrementally, and his gaze eventually slides over to meet Shiro’s. “You know those big, big hydraulic compressors that smush cars into compacted blocks about yea big?” he asks, holding out his arms to indicate the approximate size.

“Yeah? Kind of. From TV.”

“That’s where it’s going, Shiro.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. He frowns about it, thoughtful. Saying goodbye is more bittersweet than he'd expected it to be.

Keith’s hand slips into his, dry skin brushing over Shiro’s damp palm. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Shiro meets Keith’s comforting little squeeze with one of his own. “Just a little sad to see it go. It’s where we met, after all.”

Keith nods before reaching up to brush back the white fringe that hangs across Shiro’s forehead. “It is. But because of where you were parked at the time, we also technically met near the corner of Eighth and Pollux, by that walking path where that serial flasher terrorized couples and elderly singles for like, three months. And they never caught him, either,” Keith adds.

“You’re right,” Shiro sighs. He marvels at how perfectly Keith’s hand fits clasped in his own, warm and callused and soft as he strokes his thumb along Keith’s slender wrist. “We’ll always have that stretch of sidewalk by the park where that guy repeatedly exposed himself.”

Keith grunts an affirmative. “Are you done saying goodbye?”

“I think so.” Shiro gives his old truck one final salute, then lets Keith lead him back inside, out of the direct heat of day and into the welcome and relative cool of the garage.

“Kolivan said he wants this thing out of here today,” Keith says as they arrive back in the secluded garage housing Shiro’s new truck, arms linked together as they walk. “He’s tired of it taking up space in his personal workshop.”

“Well, we can see to that, huh?” Shiro bites down on his bottom lip as an idea comes to him. He drags his finger along the sleek hood, then clucks his tongue as he inspects it. “You know, I think it’s gotten a little dusty sitting in here…”

Keith arches his eyebrows. “Really?” he asks, deadpan. “In _two_ days?”

Shiro winks as he pops open the door. “Yeah. I think I ought to give it a wash. There’s a good self-service place not far from my apartment, which’ll be convenient since I’m sure I’ll be… just _soaked_.” He leans against the open door, barely holding back a satisfied smile as realization starts to work across Keith’s face. “Wanna come watch?”

Keith pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, sucking hard before letting it loose with a quiet pop. There’s a glaze over his eyes that says he’s already piecing together that image. “Yes…”

It turns out Keith likes riding shotgun in the passenger seat, feet kicked up on the dash with the little hippo plush secure in his lap for the ride. He’s helpful, too— keeping an eye out for Shiro during lane changes, alerting him to every dog they pass, and freely throwing double birds to anyone who cuts them off.

While stopped at a red light, Keith floats the idea of hitting the restaurant supply store over the weekend, just in case there’s anything else Shiro might want or need for his new set-up. When Shiro balks, Keith reminds him of how often he’s complained about being short on sheet pans, frustrated by cheap decorating tubes, or the lack of a good coffee bar to accompany his pastries and sweets.

“It just makes sense,” Keith assures him as they turn into the car wash, his head rolling against the the neckrest as he swivels to look at Shiro. He looks the most at-ease Shiro has ever seen him, like this is exactly where’s always wanted to be. “And I want to set you up right.”

Shiro snorts. “You’re just bringing it up now so I’ll put on a better show for you,” he says as he pulls the truck into an empty bay at the far end of the self-service station.

From the corner of his eye, Shiro can see Keith squirming as he tries and fails to fight down a shit-eating grin. ”No way. I have every confidence you’d give me your best effort no matter what.”

“Mhm,” Shiro intones, not remotely convinced. “I’ll give you your money’s worth, don’t you worry.”

The engine's heavy purr quiets as he parks, and Shiro runs his hands around the leather-wrapped wheel as he takes a moment to appreciate just how lovely Keith's truck is, how perfectly he picked it. He says as much, and Keith nearly glares at him.

"You mean _your_ truck," he corrects, drawing out the word like it'll keep Shiro from forgetting it. Going by Keith's expression, he's not fucking around on this.

Shiro flings the keys at him as he exits the truck, but Keith's reflexes are too quick. He snatches them midair, wriggles his fingers to make them clink and jingle, and whistles low. “ _Big_ mistake, Shiro. Now I get to call when we leave.”

Though it’s afternoon on a late summer Tuesday, the car wash sits nearly empty. Shiro marks that up as a blessing, considering that he’s about to spend the next hour reliving the skimpy-bathing suit car wash fundraisers he did with his frat in college.

The passenger door slams as Keith exits, too. His sneakers slap against the concrete, still wet from a previous customer, and he takes a good look around the washing bay. It’s at least a _little_ secluded, since the station is butted up against a parking garage, and that seems to satisfy Keith. He licks his lips while he watches Shiro survey the station’s soap options and the going rate for ten minutes of wash time, thinking long and hard before he speaks up again.

“Let me take some video and I’ll buy you all the locally-sourced honey you want at that farmer’s market on Saturday.” His gaze flicks up to meet Shiro’s, matching intensity for intensity, heavy with all kinds of anticipation. Then he sweetens the pot even further. “Maple syrup, too.”

“Fuck, you’ve got me pegged,” Shiro sighs as he pulls his phone and wallet from his back pocket and hands them to Keith for safekeeping— but not before pulling out a twenty to feed into the coin machine.

He has a feeling they’ll be here for a while.

 


	2. and spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little push from Keith, Shiro gets his dream bakery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super self-indulgent, sappy, syrupy fluff, with just a dash of smut.

Lunch happens at a little mom and pop place of Shiro’s choosing— a little restaurant stuffed with tiny, two-chair tables, its menu an even split between Korean dishes and standard American deli fare. It _happens_ because there’s no routine exchange of orders or money, as far as Keith can tell. Just Shiro making chit chat with an elderly woman at the counter, and then two paper-wrapped sandwiches suddenly appear in his hands.

Keith had wondered, in those first months of hovering at the periphery of Shiro’s life, exactly how the man was getting enough protein to sustain his considerable, godsent muscle mass. And the answer was this: old people _love_ Shiro, and he must’ve really won hearts and minds when he’d taken to handing out his unsold cupcakes and treats for free. Something about the sweet baker activates their stereotypical nurturing nature, as far as Keith can determine, and drives them to feed Shiro like he’s one of their own grandkids.

Thus far, Keith has seen similar at no less than six other restaurants, where Shiro seems to know the staff like they’re family friends— places where Shiro can go, flash a smile, and be handed food by some kindly old person.

Keith picks a table that’s a little set apart from the rest, tucked behind a humming refrigerator filled with chilled desserts. It’s next to a window, which overlooks the busy street outside and into a small park across the way. It’s blustery and cold out there, fall slipping into winter, and passersby keep their collars high and their hands jammed into their pockets for warmth. The winds send fallen leaves swirling and whip at the flags lining the streets, and Keith is immensely grateful to be inside for a while. He takes extra care as he peels off his new gloves— a birthday present from Shiro— and drapes his jacket over the back of his chair.

As they settle in, Shiro peels back the paper deli wrapping on each sandwich to check the contents. “Looks like we’ve got a… club sandwich and a roast beef. Which would you rather?”

“Give me the beef,” Keith says without thinking, and that’s on him.

“Again, so soon?” Shiro teases, and Keith lets it wash over him, accepting that he brought this on himself. “Let me rest, Keith.”

Keith tears into his sandwich, taking three bites in rapid succession, until he’s got so much food that it takes effort to work his jaw. “Just for that,” he says, muffled and awkward with a full mouth, “we’re marathoning tonight.”

“Careful. You tend to bite off more than you can chew, Keith.” Shiro watches him power through his roast beef with open amusement. “Literally and figuratively.”

Keith rolls his eyes in lieu of an answer, because there’s no way he can manage a response without some half-chewed food falling out, and he’s not about to give Shiro the satisfaction. It takes about a minute before he can swallow, and even then it doesn’t go down easy.

The chatter surrounding them is low and pleasant, with calls from the kitchen echoing into the dining room as things grow busier. It’s a tight fit. Almost cozy, if not for the bustle of ordering patrons and servers delivering plates of food, but the mood of the deli is warm and inviting. Keith likes it. Likes the few outdoor tables with their little red and white umbrellas, currently closed tight against the wind. Likes the little vases of flowers on each small table inside.

“Don’t you want a place like this, Shiro?”

Shiro looks at him over his sandwich as he takes another bite. He’s stunning as he turns his head and surveys the room— even with a spot of mustard clinging to his cheek.

“Don’t tell Ms. Bak,” Shiro whispers, unfazed as Keith licks his thumb and reaches across the table to clean his face. “But I don’t really love the exposed brick look. Or the red tile flooring. Also, I’m not really sure I have it in me to run a deli.”

“Stop being a smartass,” Keith chides. He nudges Shiro’s foot under the table. “I mean a storefront of your own. A bakery, obviously.”

“For the hundredth time,” Shiro sighs, “I don’t _need_ one, Keith. Not for a long time yet. The truck — the one you already dropped a hundred-grand on, if you’ll remember— is doing great business. Expansion now would be an unnecessary risk. And honestly, the cafe thing hasn’t even crossed my mind in months.”

A lie. The last time Shiro had tagged along while he ran errands for Kolivan, Keith had caught him staring at the paint samples in Home Depot for the better part of twenty minutes. He’s seen Shiro perusing the heavy appliances at the restaurant supply store. The man’s certainly not watching HGTV every night and _not_ thinking about putting shiplap on his dream cafe’s walls.

“I’m not saying you have to trade one for the other,” Keith reminds him. He’d never dream of making Shiro choose. “You can have both. We’d just get someone else to run the truck operation, and I’d help with the cafe. We’d hire some people…”

Shiro rolls his eyes and mumbles something dismissive, no doubt about the cost of bringing on additional staff.

Keith leans forward, the remaining third of his sandwich still in-hand. “Shiro, one of the _first_ things I learned about you was that you dreamed of your own bakery. You said the truck was just for building up a customer base —”

“Which I’m still doing.”

Keith breathes in deep through his nose, the rush of air helping to dampen his mounting frustration. He exhales slow through his mouth until his lungs are empty, copying a technique he’d seen Shiro use after someone double-parked and blocked them in for three hours. “All I’m going to say is that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start looking into it. Finding the right location, remodeling, opening— those all take time and a lot of work, and it would be better if we got a head start.”

“What?” Shiro asks softly, rhetorically, a blush high on his cheeks. His wide shoulders shake with the force of a little snort. “And you’ll foot the bill for all of it?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Shiro lays down his sandwich and settles back in his chair. “Because it could be a huge waste of money, Keith. If the business fails— and restaurants and cafes _do_ all the time — then you’d be out five times more—”

“I wouldn’t let it fail,” Keith says back. It’s true, but unnecessary. Keith has every confidence that Shiro will rise to become a star in the baking scene— the way his business jumped with the addition of a halfway decent truck to sell from is proof enough of that.

Shiro’s brow twitches like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “What if you invested too much and it went under? What if you lost everything on _my_ stupid idea? I don’t want to be the reason you go bankrupt, Keith.”

“You’re worrying way too much,” Keith says, raising his voice over Shiro’s disbelieving huff. He plants his elbows on the table and shuffles forward in his cheap plastic seat, ready to make the situation crystal clear. “One, there’s no way in hell that opening a small bakery-cafe is going to drain me of twenty-million dollars—”

Shiro chokes on his lemon soda, eyes shooting wide at that number.

“—and even if it did,” Keith continues, leaning closer in, “even if I had to put every penny into that place so you could keep doing what you love, I would. And I’d be _fine_ , Shiro, okay? I finished trade school and I’m a really good mechanic with connections at Sincline. But once again, this hypothetical universe where your independently-run bakery somehow has greater economic impact than a small-to-medium corporation? Really not something worth stressing over.”

There are a few drawn moments of silence. Shiro stares down at the table, where the rest of his sandwich still lays on crumpled deli paper, as he gnaws his lower lip into a dark, sore flush.

“Well, I didn’t realize you were like… a _multi_ -millionaire,” he eventually says, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Does that make you feel better? About me paying for stuff?” Keith asks. If he’d thought it would, he’d have shown Shiro his bank statement months ago.

Shiro nods slow. “Yeah. It kind of does.”

“Good,” Keith sighs. He can finally go back to working on his sandwich, which is tasty. The bread is fluffy and fresh, the provolone melted, and the beef stacked high. He makes a mental note to work the deli into his family’s lunch takeout rotation. “Just start looking around at properties you might like. If your dream location comes onto the market, I don’t want it to slip away.”

“Alright,” Shiro agrees, still wearing a heavy blush as his appetite returns. “I suppose it can’t hurt to _look_.”

Keith grins through his next bite, satisfaction soothing its way over his frazzled nerves and quelling his frustration completely. It’s not a total victory, but it is a foot in the door, and Keith suspects the pushback will be all downhill from here. Shiro’s still flustered and probably a little overwhelmed— and Keith doesn’t hold that against him— but under that, there are glimmers of true excitement.

They’re still finishing up the last bites of the free sandwiches when the same old woman from earlier wordlessly drops off two stainless steel bowls at their table. Shiro’s mouth is too full of club sandwich to voice his thanks, but he smiles gratefully up at her as she pats his cheek and heads back toward the counter.

“Jesus,” Keith mutters, almost glad for the reassurance that he’s not the only person firmly under Shiro’s spell.

“It’s just because I helped them set up their wifi once,” Shiro says, as if driven to downplay the fact that he’s utterly bewitching, so sweet that no one can resist him. “And I do some heavy lifting and odd jobs for them sometimes. And I guess it probably doesn’t hurt that they love my baking, too.”

It’s enough to bring a slow smile to Keith’s lips, though he keeps his comments to himself. Shiro, ever the hero. He has yet to witness it firsthand, but he has no doubt that Shiro helps little old ladies cross the street, too.

Still hungry, Keith peers inside his bowl and finds free bibimbap, piled high with spinach and slivered vegetables. There are even a few slices of beef hidden under the fried egg. Keith is amazed anew, warmed that they would also do this for him, a relative stranger, simply for his proximity to Shiro. But by the same token, he’s unsurprised to observe that Shiro got a little bit more of everything.

Curious, he reaches across the table and presses on the rim of Shiro’s bowl, tipping it so that he can better see its contents. “Yours has _two_ eggs.”

“So it does,” Shiro says as he finishes off his sandwich and washes it down with a sip of sparkling lemon soda. “Do you want to switch bowls?”

“No, you keep it,” Keith decides while he pokes his egg yolk and then stirs everything in his bowl together. As he chews his first bite— perfectly spicy and satisfying— he levels a meaningful stare at Shiro. “You’re gonna need it.”

 

* * *

 

“Keep up, Shiro.”

A laugh ripples through the man under him, though it comes out choked in between his shallow, fevered breaths. “I’m trying,” he huffs out, the kiss-marked length of his throat bared as he wrenches his head back into the plush of a down-stuffed pillow.

Keith doesn’t slow as he trails his hand down Shiro’s front, short nails scraping lightly down his sternum, over the little dips and rises of his abs, circling just around his navel. Doesn’t _want_ to slow and risk losing the breakneck pace that’s gotten him so close to exactly where he aches to be. Shiro fits inside him just right, and Keith’s relentless as he rides him into the overstuffed mattress.

The air in his corner bedroom is just a few degrees above cold, the house’s heater turned low for the night to conserve energy. The chill nips at Keith’s flushed and sweat-glazed skin well enough to make him shudder; it keeps the hair along his nape risen and sinks into the metal of Shiro’s arm. Cool aluminum fingertips curl into his thigh, gripping into muscle that’s taut from Keith’s exertions, the pressure enough to leave faint marks behind.

Little gasps escape Shiro, even through his bitten lower lip; he writhes a little more with each one, cheeks burning bright as he struggles to keep himself to a volume that Keith’s Marmora relatives won’t overhear. It’s a battle he’s losing, even as he draws up his left hand to cover his mouth, fingers digging into his own jaw as he holds himself back. Shiro’s eyebrows pinch tighter together, expression drawn in fatigued, overwhelmed bliss. His palm barely muffles the whines and words he can’t keep in, and Keith knows he neither of them will last much longer.

He enjoys it while he can, as best he can. Shiro had started to flag halfway through the last round, which means that right now Keith has him the way he likes best— worn out and well-fucked, relaxedly pliant as Keith takes care of him, overstimulated and quick to react to even the lightest, most teasing touch.

That’s not to say he doesn’t love what Shiro can do in their first few bouts, too— strong-armed and sweet-mouthed, so enthusiastic about giving his boyfriend everything he can that he winds up bonelessly exhausted just as Keith’s stamina is settling in for the long-haul. So eager to please, so attentive, so concerned with Keith that he seems to forget himself in the meantime.

But like this? Like this, Shiro can only enjoy the ride.

And for Keith, there are few things as indulgent as having Shiro pinned underneath him, caged between his thighs while his hands splay over the perfect cut of Shiro’s abdomen to feel the flex and tension through his core every time the man rolls his hips up from the bed. His scar-swept skin is flushed a gorgeous, uneven red under the remnants of a summer tan, hot to the touch, and every inch of that powerful body trembles like he’s barely holding himself together.

“A little more, Shiro,” Keith encourages, voice gone rough. He grins as he leans down to lip at the beautiful cut of Shiro’s jaw, feeling the first hints of stubble rough across his skin. There are still red marks from bites he laid down an hour ago, or maybe more; he drags his tongue over a chain of them, fond of his own work.

Shiro keens in response, long past complex vocalizations by this point, his chest heaving under Keith’s palms. He’s erratic as he bucks upward to meet Keith, hips stuttering every time. The metal-and-black-polymer hand slipping up along Keith’s thigh is cool even as Keith feels the sheen over his skin break into a full-on sweat; perspiration slides slow down his back, finds the dips along Keith’s hips and behind his knees, touches his tongue as he licks his lips.

Shiro jolts under him, whole body rigid as he arches up toward Keith, his eyes rolling back as Keith snaps his hips down in response.

And that alone is enough to make him finish across Shiro’s chest.

“Six!” Keith croons, proud and borderline cheeky as he flops down beside Shiro. The rumpled sheets are a cool relief against his sweat-slick skin. Stretched out on his side, head on his pillow— extra firm, as a pillow should be, no matter what blasphemy Shiro speaks— Keith hunts over his boyfriend’s profile for a reaction.

He grins as Shiro’s breaths gradually even out, his long lashes fluttering with every slow blink. A dreamy smile slips languidly across the lips Keith loves to kiss, and the satisfaction of having put it there has Keith’s chest filled to bursting.

“ _Fuck_ …” is the first thing Shiro manages to say, after well more than a minute passes. He’s still staring up at the ceiling.

“We’re close to our record,” Keith reminds him. His own voice comes out husky, cords worn from spending most of the evening groaning and growling in Shiro’s ear.

“The spirit’s willing to go for seven, but the flesh is jello…” Shiro says, exhaling deep. “Give me half an hour and I’ll have the strength to move my legs again.”

“Take your time,” Keith says as he presses a kiss to the mess of white bangs plastered to Shiro’s sweaty forehead. Shiro seems grateful when he smooths them back a moment after, and even more so when Keith’s hand lingers to comb gently through his hair.

“You’re gonna have to do all the work next round,” Shiro says, yawning wide. He stretches his toned arms back above his head, his wrists crossed where they rest against the headboard. It makes for an enticing sight, and Keith certainly wouldn’t mind having a conversation about trussing Shiro up just like that. “I’m just going to lie here and look pretty.”

“What else is new?” Keith teases as he leans over and nips along the curve of Shiro’s ear. “So, who’s the one who bites off more than he can chew, again?”

“Your stamina is inhuman,” Shiro grumbles, turning his face into the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut and nose scrunched, he breathes out a soft laugh as Keith kisses a line down his neck.

“You’re doing a good job keeping up, though.” And he is, especially at the end of a painfully long workday. “How are your legs feeling?”

At the foot of the bed, two sets of toes wiggle. Shiro grunts and Keith can feel the puff of his breath. “If I tried to stand up, I’d faceplant. All the toe-curling is killing me.”

Keith’s hum is muffled against Shiro’s shoulder. “Tragic. I could give you a massage,” he offers, lips moving over scarred skin while he slowly slides his shin against Shiro’s. There’s nothing like a little pampering to make Shiro absolutely melt, and there’s little that Keith enjoys more than being the one to do it— working stupidly expensive oils over his boyfriend’s skin until he gleams, wringing pleased sighs out of Shiro as he undoes the knots in his broad shoulders and chases the soreness from his thighs, worshipping him from nape to heel and back again.

“Maybe. Maybe after,” Shiro tentatively agrees as he relaxes a little more, body slack under Keith’s slow, palmed strokes across his chest.

“You’re gonna fall asleep again,” Keith gently laughs, biting light on his lip as he traces the curve of Shiro’s pec, following its strong lines up to the powerful swell of his shoulders and upper arms.

“I won’t,” Shiro denies, even as his eyelids sink with the heaviness of oncoming slumber. He bites back another small yawn and lazily stretches out his limbs, still insisting he’s almost good to go for more.

Keith watches for a few minutes more, quiet as Shiro drowsily compliments him on the new chest of drawers across the room. It’s tall and dark cherry, big enough to spare a few drawers for the pajamas and other clothes he bought for Shiro’s overnight stays— and markedly nicer than the shabby particle board dresser he’d been using for the last three years.

There’s a lapse in Shiro’s rambling speech, which somehow meandered onto the topic of carnival food, and Keith can tell he’s fighting hard to keep awake.

“Hey, go to sleep,” Keith tells him as he tugs the covers up over Shiro’s chest, already thinking about how much laundry he’ll have to do tomorrow. “You’ve been up since like, three in the morning. We’ll go for gold another night.”

Shiro groans as he sinks a little more into the bed. It’s not at all like the aged mattress in his apartment, all uneven springs and sagging support, and Shiro has a tendency to melt on contact with an actual decent pillowtop. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Keith says as he cups his hand along the curve of Shiro’s cheek.

Shiro’s eyes are already closed as Keith leans over to kiss him goodnight.

 

* * *

 

Living with his family has its perks. Privacy isn’t one of them.

Whether in the cramped two-story he’d spent his teen years in or the new eight-bedroom craftsman house he bought after his first fat paycheck from Sincline cleared, it seems everyone always knows his business.

When Keith rolls over to check his phone, there’s a text from Regris. It’s time-stamped from a little after midnight.

 

_no round 7?_

_did he fall asleep again?_

_fuck offffffffffff_

_it travels through the air vents…_

_but it’s not as bad as hearing antok and kolivan at least_

 

At least the no-privacy thing is universal.

He lets Shiro to sleep in, knowing how rare a treat it is for his beloved baker. It’s hard for Keith to tear himself away when he looks like this— utterly at peace under the soft morning light, wrapped in creamy silk sheets that Keith had splurged on after a passing comment from Shiro as they wandered through Bed, Bath, and Beyond in search of a highly specific citrus zester.

He longs to run his thumb across the fullness of Shiro’s fanned lashes; he’d like to lick his way up that hard jaw and taste the lingering salt on his skin. But Keith staves off the urge, slips quietly from the bed without waking Shiro, and takes a quick shower before heading downstairs for breakfast. By the time he’s at the bottom of the steps he can hear faint, muffled Turkish from the kitchen, and the smell of strong coffee greets him in full force as he enters.

“Keith,” Kolivan greets, immediately nodding him toward the long table that occupies the open dining space connected to the enormous kitchen. He’s standing before the small pot simmering away on the stove, tending the coffee as it brews.

A small bit of morning sunlight manages to spill through their windows, but it does little to break the lingering dimness inside the house. None of them mind it enough to flip on the lights properly, so Keith takes his usual seat in the near-dark. A spread of homemade bread and jams— Keith has to open each jar and peek inside to tell what’s what— is already laid out, along with heartier fare like fragrant, spicy sausage and scrambled eggs. Keith starts piling his plate high, ravenous after his long night with Shiro.

Wordlessly, Antok sets a cup of breakfast tea down for him and then takes the seat opposite. The head of the long table is left for Kolivan, as usual, even though the man is still busy tending to the coffee pot on the stovetop.

Antok’s fingernails strum against the tabletop as Keith eats. He’s clearly already finished his own breakfast and now only lurks in the hope of something sweeter, increasingly impatient as he waits on the baker currently getting his beauty rest in Keith’s bed. “Where’s Shiro?”

Keith glances up from his bread topped high with dark, seed-flecked fig jam. It’s honeyed and sweet and it makes Keith halfway long for their cramped old house with the fig tree planted in the backyard. “Still sleeping. He’ll be a while.”

With that, Antok grunts and stands back up, a long and disappointed sigh wheezing out. “I’ll go start on the yardwork, then,” he grumbles to Kolivan as he passes through the kitchen, pausing only to kiss the crown of pale hair that’s expertly braided and draped around his husband’s broad shoulders.

“He’s been whining about Shiro’s baking all morning,” Kolivan mutters with an exasperated sigh as soon as he hears the back door slam shut. “Coffee?”

Keith makes an affirmative sound through the half-chewed bread in his mouth, and Kolivan hands him a small cup of liquid so dark and thick it might be mistaken for ink. His first sip has a bite to it, and Keith can still taste the coffee on the back of his tongue long after he swallows. “I’ll ask Shiro if he can whip something up when he comes down.”

Kolivan thanks him as he sits down with his own cup and they soon get lost in shop talk. It seems like a fine time for Keith to bring up something he’s been meaning to ask: whether or not Kolivan would be willing to take on a high school junior part-time, teaching her the basics of either auto repair or business management. Keith’s taken a particular shine to this kid— Mirana, who reminds him of himself in the worst ways— over months of after-school sessions, and now he’s scrambling to find an alternative solution that might keep her out of juvenile detention and give her some useful skills, too.

Their discussion is briefly interrupted as other members of the sprawling Marmora clan come down to grab breakfast before heading out for the day— his mom on her way to work, Regris and Kalat to the shop, Thace to the store with an arm’s length grocery list and Ulaz off for his shift at the hospital— but Kolivan is ultimately amenable to the arrangement.

Keith’s relieved, though he had expected no different. Kolivan’s already straightened out one stubborn, grieving teenager with a penchant for fistfights— why not another? They hash out details for Mirana’s apprenticeship and a schedule for her at the shop, with Kolivan tapping away at his keyboard to get the paperwork lined up.

It’s not long after that Shiro comes down and joins them, his hair still wet from the shower, grinning and content. He’s in loose, plaid flannel bottoms that hang low on his slim hips, baring a tempting stretch of his belly that extends to the hiked up hem of a tight, soft-knit cotton shirt stretched tight around his upper body.

Keith nibbles his thumbnail. He’s glad he picked those out.

“Good morning,” Shiro greets, leaning down to kiss Keith’s temple before taking the seat beside him. He’s aglow, refreshed from a solid eight hours’ rest in a bed with actual support.

“Coffee, Shiro?” Kolivan asks, a little clipped but well-meaning, already rising from his chair.

“Um, yes, please. Thank you. I’d love some,” Shiro answers with that same awkwardness he wears so often around the Marmora, looking back into the kitchen like he would’ve grabbed it himself if he’d known.

“Sit,” Kolivan deters before Shiro can stand back up. He points down at the table, all level authority, and says, “ _Eat_.”

While his uncle heads back into the kitchen, Keith starts making a plate for Shiro. He loads it high with cold sausage and simple homemade bread spread with Shiro’s favorite strawberry jam. Shiro’s smile as Keith places it in front of him is enough to make his heart swell.

“Thank you,” Shiro says. He leans in and whispers close to Keith’s ear, so that Kolivan might not hear. “And sorry for tapping out early.”

Under the table, Keith squeezes his boyfriend’s thigh. “Don’t worry about it. There’s always next time. Oh, and just so you know, your biggest fan was hoping you’d make something before I take you home.” He pauses after, concerned that it sounds too demanding, like there’s no room for Shiro to breathe and and take a break from his day job even here. “Only if you want to, though. I don’t want you to feel like you’re working on your day off.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Shiro shrugs, hands cupping around the steaming mug of coffee Kolivan gives him. He obviously knows that answer does nothing to quell Keith’s worry that Shiro might see his family’s frequent requests as undeniable obligations. “And I _want_ to, Keith. Baking calms me. It’s a very relaxing way to start the day, actually.”

He’s reassuring, but Keith can’t resist giving Shiro a hard time. “Is it, though? You didn’t seem very relaxed Wednesday morning…”

“Because I was trying to ice sixty cupcakes before Allura needed to use the kitchen and my hand kept spasming around the piping bag,” Shiro snorts, his cheeks a little bright despite himself. “It’s fixed, though,” he adds, flourishing his fingers for demonstration.

“Nice,” Keith comments as he takes Shiro’s prosthetic hand and inspects the joints. Kolivan pauses on the way to his chair, leaning down to take a quick look, too. “Pidge or Matt?”

“Pidge,” Shiro says as he settles back in his chair, tucking his arm back in his lap. The wait at the VA is always too long, and Shiro has no shortage of tech-minded friends eager to peek inside his arm and tweak it to his liking. “I’m kind of scared she’s going to add some kind of code that’ll like… make me flip the bird on command.”

Keith grunts. It does sound like something she’d do. “Yeah.”

Kolivan doesn’t grace that thought with a reply. He’s met both of the Holts, and though privately very impressed with their ability, he makes no bones about being wary of their capacity for mischief. “Shiro… I hear you’re looking into acquiring a proper storefront?”

Shiro’s gaze slides over to Keith, as if to say _that was fast._ “Just looking,” he emphasizes.

“Well, should you open a place, my husband would be your most frequent customer,” is all Kolivan says, lifting his massive shoulders as he pours tea from the pot sitting in the middle of the table. His touch lingers fondly on the dark purple marled tea cozy that Antok knitted.

“He is pretty fond of the honey toast, huh? And, uh, everything else,” Shiro says, laughing weakly afterward. It’s an understatement, to say the least; the lengths his uncle will go through for Shiro’s baking have long since crossed a line.

Keith knows his boyfriend is still haunted by the time Antok knocked on the bedroom door to request that Shiro make some bread pudding once they finished. It had killed the mood, to say the least, and Shiro’d worn a hundred-yard stare as he put his same clothes back on and headed down to the kitchen bearing the knowledge that his boyfriend’s family was fully aware he’d been getting railed fifteen minutes prior.

Kolivan’s lips pull into a small grimace, but it relaxes into a faint smile shortly after. “He’s always had quite the sweet tooth. Seems to run in the family,” he adds before draining the last of his cup. “But I’m sure you’re quite familiar, considering how you’re mobbed every time you step foot in the shop with a delivery.”

Keith smiles and rubs Shiro’s shoulder, sympathetic. He’s heard tales of it from Shiro— swarmed by well-meaning but voracious Marmora relations, plied with invitations to birthday parties and social gatherings, trapped in chains of polite conversation as he tries to make his way back out to his bike. Shiro’s a sweet soul, trying to do right by his boyfriend’s family, but that amount and intensity of social interaction has to be murder on anyone with introverted tendencies.

“Let’s get started on whatever you’re going to bake,” he suggests as he leans over and rests his chin on Shiro’s comforting shoulder. “Before Antok comes prowling back in.”

Kolivan takes that as a cue to leave and start on his own chores, thanking Shiro again as he gives each of them a pat on the shoulder.

“You know,” Keith says as he helps Shiro pull out all the ingredients for cinnamon rolls, “if you had an actual bakery, you wouldn’t have to bring stuff to the shop all the time. They could just send someone to pick it up. One person, Shiro. Not that you’d even have to be the one handling the order, even— you could be tucked away in the kitchen, just baking the day away.”

When Keith looks over, he sees Shiro standing with the fridge door wide open, eyes vacant as he considers the possibility. Smiling to himself, Keith keeps cracking eggs until Shiro slowly comes back to the present.

“Okay,” Shiro nods as he starts measuring out butter. The notion’s clearly appealing, and quickly taking root. “Noted.”

 

* * *

 

It’s _weeks_ later that Shiro brings it up again, out of the blue.

It’s three-thirty in the morning and Keith barely manages to drag himself into Allura’s bakery using the spare key she entrusted him with, even with half a pot of coffee flowing in his veins. And he one-hundred percent cannot relate when Shiro sweeps in with a bright smile, freshly showered after an early morning workout, his phone in hand to show Keith a realtor listing.

Allura had seen it and sent Shiro the link, and now Shiro is _in love_. It’s a good look on him.

Shiro doesn’t stop talking— barely pauses to breathe, even— as he starts gathering ingredients for the day’s baking and gets the ovens pre-heating. He gushes about the square-footage and tall ceilings, so wrapped up in his excitement that he completely ignores the list he’d given Keith and starts throwing together a batter and pours it into springform tins rather than cupcake pans, making what appears to be a three-tiered cake entirely on autopilot.

“It has _skylights_ , Keith,” he says, as if it’s the be-all, end-all of design; as if it’s the dealbreaker he never knew he had, and now he can’t fathom a bakery without them. He pops the cake tins into the oven and sets a timer without another thought, dusting off his hands before returning to the center counter.

“Essential for any cafe,” Keith comments, wondering if he ought to put a little damper on Shiro’s cloud nine enthusiasm. There are still a lot of unknowns to consider, despite how promising the property sounds. And they’re already slipping behind on Shiro’s baking plans for the day. “We should probably check it out in person before you get your heart set on it, though. Maybe view a few other places for comparison.”

Shiro’s open-mouthed smile wavers, but only for a moment. He can’t argue with common sense, but it’s obvious he’s already head-over-heels.

“I know, but look at the— look at these windows. And the kitchen, my god,” he continues as he goes through the listing on his phone, crowded tight against Keith as he slowly swipes through all thirty-eight photos. “It used to be a bistro. And look at what part of town it’s in! The foot traffic there is _insane_.”

His enthusiasm is contagious, and Keith can only resist for so long. It’s a beautiful space, to be sure, and Allura has undeniably good taste. There’s room for remodeling, but the bare bones certainly aren’t bad, either. Keith can easily imagine all of the changes Shiro’s talking about— redone floors, a new counter, different fixtures and decor— and he finds he wants it all nearly as bad.

“Should I just go ahead and put in an offer?” Keith asks after hearing Shiro’s dreamy sigh when they reach a photo of the cafe’s streetside storefront. He’s only half-joking.

That gives Shiro pause. A bright flush crests the tops of his cheeks and over his scarred nose, and Keith wonders if— in his rush of excitement over the perfect location— Shiro briefly forgot his reservations about who’d be paying for it.

“We really should see it in person, first,” Shiro says softly, giving Keith a tentative smile. “Sorry for coming on so strong.”

“Don’t sweat it. I like seeing you worked up.” He grins as Shiro’s blush deepens and reaches out to tinge his ears, too.

The baker sighs and goes over everything he needs to make before hitting the road: petit fours, miniature cheesecakes, brownies, cream puffs, and a dozen different flavors of cupcake. It’s a considerable undertaking, even with Keith present to help split a portion of the workload.

“Why did I… when did I make a cake?” Shiro asks as the first timer buzzes and he pulls open the oven. Grumbling, he removes the three fluffy chocolate cakes and sets them on a rack to cool. After frowning at the offending cake pans for a moment, he looks to Keith. “Hey… you watched me do this. You let this happen, Keith.”

“Oh no,” Keith says, monotone. “A whole extra cake… whatever will we do with it.”

He pushes the ingredients for a German chocolate frosting in front of Shiro, already neatly stacked.

Shiro’s look is a cross between a smile and a pout. “Fine, but I’m doing it last,” he decides as he turns his attentions to the actual menu items he needs to make— cupcakes and pastries that make for convenient street food.

Keith helps where he can, attentive to Shiro’s patient instruction. He’s not particularly skilled when it comes to baking or cooking— though he knows the ins and outs of butchering and enough recipes from Kolivan to make a week’s worth of balanced meals— but he can take care of simple tasks to help speed Shiro’s work.

And he likes spending time together like this, when his boyfriend would otherwise be out alone in the pre-dawn dark, slogging away with no help. Shiro had protested so much at first— all of it stemming from a desire to do anything but inconvenience Keith or subject him to the same inhumane hours— not seeming to realize that Keith doesn’t mind any of that, so long as he has Shiro. He _likes_ it, even. Likes quiet time with Shiro all to himself, making memories out of taste-tests, impromptu lessons, and messy accidents.

It’s all well-worth the week of classes he had to take to get certified to handle food. It’s even worth the mild embarrassment of his mom and uncles showing up to take the class with him. Keith cracks and separates eggs, sifts measures of flour, weighs butter, and cleans away the mixing bowls and whisks as Shiro finishes with them. It’s calming work when things are running smooth, and he thinks he understands how Shiro found so much purpose in it after the trauma of losing his arm.

Shiro mixes up the German chocolate frosting last, and then guides Keith as he slathers it on the assembled cake. “Here, you even it out, Keith.”

Keith’s trying, but all he seems capable of is shifting lumpy masses from one side of the cake to the other, tearing up the fluffy, delicate surface in the process. “Like this?”

“With the flat side— turn it and just— _smooth_ , Keith. You want it to be smooth.”

“Like _this_?”

Shiro laughs as he moves to stand behind Keith, pressed close as he takes both of his smaller hands and guides him through long, fluid movements that create a professionally uniform distribution of the thick, clumped frosting. “Here, like this.”

Keith protests when Shiro starts to pull back. “Wait. Wait, wait. Show me again. Slowly.”

“It’s already done,” Shiro laughs, not willing to risk the cake any further just to play ball. But he’s a good sport anyway, slinging his arms around Keith’s midsection to draw him close as he kisses his boyfriend’s cheek.

“Fine. But I want you to teach me how to frost the cupcakes next time,” Keith says as he turns in Shiro’s loose hold until they’re face-to-face. “And I’m going to need _a lot_ of hands-on training.”

“I’ll bet,” Shiro agrees, humming as he touches his lips to Keith’s forehead next.

Keith smiles under the barrage of kisses that follow, peppering their way down his nose and across his cheek bones before finding his lips. It’s early and there’s a long day ahead: Keith helping Shiro in the truck until it’s time for him to drop by the school and then visit his uncle’s auto shop; Shiro helping Allura with an event this evening as part of his deal for using her kitchen.

He sighs as Shiro holds him close and sways gently side to side. They’re wasting time when they could be loading the truck, but Keith’s deeply reluctant to say so. “So, you really like that storefront, huh? The one Allura sent?”

Shiro groans somewhere just above his head, his whole demeanor changing in Keith’s arms. “It’s perfect. It has everything, Keith, even things I never knew I wanted. Did I tell you it can run on solar? Did you see the walk-in? Ugh, I get jittery just thinking about it.”

Keith leans back and whistles low. Shiro looks lovesick. “You got it bad, huh?”

He answers with a wistful sigh that raises the hairs along Keith’s nape. “Mm. I’ll be up all night thinking about it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Keith slides his hands up Shiro’s sides, earning a grin and the low, throaty laugh he loves so well. As far as he’s concerned— as the current and predominant cause of Shiro’s sleepless nights— this is a challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

 

* * *

 

“We don’t need to hire a crew,” Keith insists for what feels like the hundredth time.

The empty storefront is, as of yet, untouched. The offer went through on Shiro’s birthday— a happy coincidence that Keith hadn’t intended but loves all the same— and they’ve done a few walkthroughs since then, but not much else. Drop cloths still drape the existing counters and fixtures, while the floors are littered with dust and scraps of whatever old business existed prior. It will take several weeks’ worth of remodeling and applied elbow grease to get the shop opening-ready.

Keith had helped with the planning, sketching the layout and final design while Shiro watched and guided him with suggestions. He has a clear picture of what layout Shiro wants, what style— ashy grey hardwood and natural light, clean wood-and-glass counters and cozy chairs, shiplap and walls charted with gold-and-silver constellations. It’ll be beautiful and Keith can’t wait to contribute, to help build a future with Shiro with his own two hands.

Literally.

“Shiro, making cabinets is like, _third-grade_ carpentry. Any competent eight-year-old could do it, with a little supervision.” He takes another measurement for the counter and marks it down for later reference. With a small gesture, he has Shiro take the other end of the measuring tape and hold it to the far wall.

“You realize your childhood is not a universal experience, right?” Shiro asks, eyebrows lifting as he watches Keith take down another number.

Keith rolls his eyes as he scribbles himself a note on the dimensions of the kitchen doorway. “Look, between my dad and the Marmora, I was raised to be very handy—”

“And hand _sy,_ ” Shiro butts in, snorting as Keith shows him just how handsy he can be by going straight for the sensitive, ticklish spot along his ribs, getting in a few good attacks before Shiro’s able to sidestep out of his reach.

“—and I know people who can do the wiring, the plumbing, whatever,” Keith adds, grinning sly as Shiro warily guards his midsection. “It’s like, the one benefit of having a big, extended family with a ton of connections.”

Though he’s smiling, Shiro isn’t convinced. He wavers, uncertainty written in the light furrow forming between his brows.  “I just don’t want Antok grumbling about having to spend his weekends—”

“If he can have a standing order of honey toast from you every damn day, then he can come help re-tile the kitchen floor,” Keith says, final on the matter. “Besides, it’s kind of a family politics thing, too. A lot of my relatives would be insulted if we outsourced to strangers—”

“Professionals,” Shiro interjects with a tiny grin.

“— _anyone_ outside of the family, when they’re willing to lend a hand. I’d never hear the end of it, Shiro.”

Shiro leans on the unfinished counter and snorts, eyes slipping shut for a second. “That’s fine, Keith. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I was very upfront about what they’re like,” Keith reminds him. Hell, if Krolia grilling him as she sharpened a set of wickedly curved hunting knives wasn’t enough to scare Shiro off, then no amount of time around the Marmora family should worry him. “It was full-disclosure. You knew what you were getting tangled up in—”

“I know, I know. That doesn’t bother me. I _like_ your family, Keith, even if they tend to have resting evil-eye.” He leans back against what will eventually be a glass pastry case, his hands braced on either side of him, rumpled in the drop cloth. “That’s why I don’t want them to — to resent me, you know?”

“ _Resent_ you?” Keith presses, feeling the shock of it down to his fingertips. And if he can feel it, he know it shows in his expression, too. Everything in the moment shifts as he finds himself wondering just how long Shiro’s been nursing this worry. “For what? For lending a hand?”

Shiro tilts his head and gives a little wince, not quite willing to meet Keith’s searching stare. “For you having to do so much for me. And them, now, too. How you give me so much more than I give back. It’s even more than money, Keith, it’s…” He pushes back his hair, white strands streaking into the inky black at his crown— and at the rate his hair is turning, he’ll be full silver before thirty. His jaw works, but whatever else he means to say won’t come.

Keith’s heard enough, though. He cups Shiro’s face, forcing the taller man to meet him eye-to-eye.

“They don’t think that,” Keith assures, firm as he strokes along perfect cheekbones and across the strong cut of his jaw. He drags his thumb down to run over Shiro’s full bottom lip, doing what he can to smooth out his frown. “ _I_ don’t think that,” he adds, though he hopes it doesn’t need to be said.

“Well, _I_ do,” Shiro whispers, soft in his worry. There’s a troubled look in his eye and the little clench of his teeth reads like emotion brought forcibly to heel. “I mean, it’s a fact, Keith.”

“Shiro, don’t. That's not true at all.” He draws the taller man in, hooking his arms tight around Shiro’s shoulders to keep him bound close. There’s a trickle of cold fear down his spine and under his skin, the same kind that sometimes keeps him awake in the night— that nothing he does will be enough to keep Shiro with him, that he’ll lose him for lack of saying or doing the right thing.

Shiro hangs his head a little but he doesn’t budge from Keith’s hold, and for that much he’s grateful. He’d stay this close with Shiro until the death of the universe, if he could.

Keith rests his forehead on Shiro’s collar, breathing in the scent of fresh laundry and vanilla. “Sometimes, I think you don’t have a clue how much you mean to me.”

And it’s true. Their first meeting was almost ten months ago, and in that time Keith’s affection for Shiro has grown into something unbound and wild and well outside of his control. Lust, infatuation— whatever had first drawn him to Shiro that day on the corner of Eighth and Pollux, it’s nothing compared to the way he yearns for Shiro now, body and soul. There’s no exaggeration in his promises, no doubts about how far he is willing to go to keep Shiro happy.

It’s entirely possible that he’s more attached to Shiro than Shiro is to himv likely, even, given just how unfathomably bone-deep his feelings for the man run— and the thought sends Keith’s stomach plummeting with the same wrenching force as a cliff dive.

Shiro murmurs his name softly, breath tickling over Keith’s hair. His hands bracket around Keith’s waist, thumbs working back and forth across his bottom ribs through his flannel, a twitch running along his brow as he studies Keith with focused intent.

Keith mirrors it back, and some combination of affection and desperation makes the moment feel right. “I love you.”

Shiro’s eyes widen, grey irises bright under the natural light pouring in shafts from the ceiling.

It’s the first time either of them has said it— those words exactly, clear and concise, in this context. Keith’s own family doesn’t make such declarations freely, instead opting to show it in little gestures and acts of affection; but for all Keith had thought his desperate love for Shiro was plain in his actions, maybe putting it into straightforward words will help drive the truth home. He needs Shiro to know it and never doubt it. He needs him to know Keith’s stake in this.

“Um. I don’t say that a whole lot,” Keith adds, nervous as he scratches self-consciously at a spot on his cheek, “but I want you to know it, always. Whatever I do for you, it’s because I love you. You’re family to me, Shiro. And to my mom’s family, too. Whether you like it or not, I think,” he adds, laughing weakly to cover the shake in his voice. “They’ve claimed you.”

“I like it. I do,” Shiro says, nodding as he leans in until their foreheads bump, their hair mussing together. “I’m grateful, Keith.”

From the very corner of his eye, Keith can blearily see the movement of Shiro’s throat as he swallows, slow and heavy.

“And I love you, too.” Shiro squeezes him so fiercely that Keith thinks he can feel the other man’s heartbeat through his own ribcage, flush-tight against his front; like he’s afraid that saying it might’ve driven Keith away. “ _So_ much, Keith. So much that I’m scared I’ll ruin it.”

“Heh. Me, too,” Keith manages to wheeze out, blindly running his hand up Shiro’s nape to rake his fingers through his short, silky strands.

“ _You?_ Why?” Shiro’s grip slackens as he cocks his head at Keith, offended at the very idea. “I’m the one trying to hold onto someone out of my league, here.”

“ _Me_?” Keith can’t _not_ laugh. “You’re killing me, Shirogane.”

“Unbelievable,” is all Shiro says as he pulls him in again, this time for a kiss that quickly turns hungry. After, he nuzzles against Keith’s cheek and along his jaw, sighing out his contentment. “I really love you, Keith. For a while now, you know.”

Keith makes a noise halfway between a grunt and an affirmative hum. “Same.”

“I just wish there was more I could do for you,” Shiro says, something mournful in his tone. “To show it.”

So beautiful but so dense. Keith supposes it’s the universe’s way of balancing out all the good qualities it heaped onto the angelic baker. “Shiro, you already give me everything I could ever possibly want.”

Dumbstruck, all Shiro can manage is, “Oh.”

“More kisses would be good, though,” Keith helpfully suggests, if Shiro’s so desperate to find some area to improve on.

“Oh,” Shiro says again, laughing softly this time. “Okay. That’s an easy one.”

He dips down to find Keith’s lips with his own, kissing him until they’re both aching for air. It’s deep and drawn out, but Shiro keeps it sweet. He’s soft, almost hesitant, each time he slides his tongue across Keith’s lips or edges it across the peaks of his teeth.

Keith ups the ante by briefly drawing back to lick a stripe from Shiro’s mouth up the side of his cheek. He can feel the warmth of Shiro’s instantaneous laughter against his throat, the heat of his breath sinking into his skin.

“I really need to get all these measurements or Kolivan’s going to be on my ass,” Keith murmurs as they both relax in each other’s arms. Reluctant despite his duties, he takes up Shiro’s hand and gives his wrist one last kiss. “Are we okay? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Shiro says as he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, still smiling. He picks up a few of the small pots of paint they got from the home supply store. “I still have to do these swatches. I’m gonna need your opinion on which looks better in natural light.”

“Okay,” Keith says, a note of uncertainty in his voice as he gets back to the task at hand. They’ve gone around in circles over the color scheme about twenty times already. He’s half convinced Shiro and Allura are just showing him the same palettes and making up new names for the colors— how many different shades of grey and white can there be, really?

As he tries to get the last of the measurements he needs, he catches Shiro staring. Little moments, and he’s doing nothing particularly hot or interesting to justify it— each time he’s caught in the act, Shiro quietly goes back to putting up test patches of paint. After the fifth time, Keith calls him out on it.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” Shiro shrugs when pressed, aglow with a smile he can’t seem to shake. “You _loving_ me.”

“Well, get used to the idea,” Keith says as he jots down the last figures.

He’d really thought it was obvious, even unspoken. He looks at Shiro like no one else; treats him like no one else. There’s only one person in the world Keith would chase across town in a rust-bucket for five measly minutes of conversation; one man he’d willingly make himself a fool for. He’s never really found much appeal in romance, but something about Shiro makes him want to lay the world at his feet and orchestrate grand gestures like he’s seen in movies.

Shiro asks for his opinion on the paint, and though Keith can barely tell a difference, he squints and tries to pick a favorite. “The middle two are nice?”

“So, warm tones?” Shiro asks, consulting his paint swatches again.

“Uh.” He worries his lip for a second. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

Shiro’s grinning, his head tipped almost indulgently. “I appreciate your input,” he says and means it, fully aware by now that Keith’s artistic aptitude stops well before color theory. “Allura keeps pushing the intergalactic grey with pastel accents and I just… I can’t.”

“Which ones do you like?” Keith questions.

“The argent grey is a little dark, but I like it… I think that’s the middle left one. And this one’s called meteor shower—”

“Shiro, you can’t pick colors just because you like the name,” Keith laughs, vindicated when Shiro’s cheeks brighten.

“Hey, I’m judging them on multiple axes,” Shiro says, not denying anything. “The heath grey is bright, airy. I think this with the argent… maybe as an accent wall…”

Keith holds back another comment. There are only so many accent walls a room can have— _one_ being the norm, per Keith’s background exposure to HGTV — and by his latest tally, Shiro’s clocking in around six. Let him dream, Keith decides as he watches Shiro swap and compare swatches another ten times.

When it looks like Shiro’s fun is starting to slide into frustration, Keith bends to his toolbag and pulls out a heavy-set binder, thumping it onto the counter and sending a thin spray of dust into the air.

“I brought this for you to look through,” Keith says as he slides the catalogue of various kitchen and flooring materials toward Shiro. It’s a dense read, each stiff, glossy page covered in detailed examples of tile and laminate. “It’s a small local business. Thace says they have some nice designs and stuff.”

Shiro flips through the samples— idly, at first, as if only browsing, but soon he’s staring at them with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes. Soft noises, probably entirely unconscious, escape him whenever he finds something particularly lovely or hideous.

He turns one thick page and lets out a strangled little gasp at the listed price-per-square-foot. After recovering, he lifts it up for Keith to get a look, his jaw still a little slack from the shock. “Hey, Keith, what if I want Calacatta marble for the counters?”

Keith leans in to see the figure. _Steep_. Ridiculously so. It’s absolutely not worth it — not for a bakery kitchen, for sure— but he’d pay through the nose if Shiro really wanted it. “For that much, I’d better be bending you over them every damn day,” he jokes.

“Don’t even want to think about how many health code violations that’d be,” Shiro mutters as he sets the catalogue down and flips around until he finds more practical options suited for a working kitchen. He pulls a pad of sticky note markers from his wallet— a reveal that doesn’t even surprise Keith anymore— and uses the fluorescent tabs to mark pages containing stainless steel counters with rounded edges and dense slabs of wood that would work well with flour.

Keith watches as he moves on to other sections of the catalogue, perusing examples of wood laminate and tiling.

“Oh…”

“Oh?” Keith perks up at the promising little exclamation.

“This backsplash tile…” Shiro murmurs wistfully as he runs his fingers over the slivered sample adhered to the catalogue. It’s ceramic-and-glass in a pale, flecked grey with a faintly iridescent sheen. When spread out, it forms a pattern of interlocking circles that gleam with the diffused colors of a rainbow.

It’s very pretty. He can see why Shiro’s drawn to the hazy sparkle of it, the band of shifting colors pairing well with the subdued grey of the ceramic. It’d look good as the backdrop to the kitchen space, brightening Shiro’s work area while he bakes.

“It would look good in the kitchen,” Keith says over Shiro’s shoulder. He rests his chin on his boyfriend’s trapezius and murmurs near his ear. “Just pick whatever you like best, and let me take care of the rest.”

 

* * *

 

The remodeling becomes Keith’s pet project, dominating his productive hours to the point that he has to sacrifice any hope of early morning baking with Shiro for a few weeks. His relatives filter in and out to help, and Keith finds himself the de facto foreman, carrying out Shiro’s wishes while the man himself is running the truck. The bakery takes shape under his guidance, and Keith couldn’t be more pleased.

It’s a point of pride, almost, when it comes to seamlessly fitting together the joints of custom cabinetry and laying hardwood and tile perfect and even. It’s fun, even, when they paint the walls together with colors Shiro spent another week agonizing over before handing the pallette to Keith and leaving him to make the decision.

Keith’s always loved working with his hands, and doing it for Shiro makes it all the better.

Streaks of warm, pale grey and dark navy— named _night flight_ , according to the paintcan— round his arms and smear over his hands. Flecks are probably in his hair, too. He’d worn old clothes that are nearly ready for the garbage anyway, and it pays off. They’re specked and splattered with spackle and three different shades of paint, long beyond any saving.

Shiro’s just as messy as he is. Probably just as tired and sore from a long day of taking turns on the ladder to reach the crown molding, struggling with the long-armed rollers, panicking to clean up after accidentally knocking over a bucket of paint. They both smell like Home Depot and paint fumes, and that alone ought to be enough to preclude any shred of romantic intimacy tonight.

But none of that seems to matter when it’s Shiro. Not when he walks the way he does, crossing from the kitchen of his small apartment in a swagger that’s somehow bone-tired and enticing all at once. Not when he wears the streaks of grey that touch his jaw and band his arms so well. Not with how he rakes Keith over with bedroom eyes.

As soon as he reaches the loveseat, Shiro swings out a knee so it rests on the other side of Keith’s hips and settles down over his lap. The thin fabric stretched across the front of his worn-out, paint-smeared sweatpants does nothing to hide how hard he is, and just the shape of him is enough to spike Keith’s arousal into the stratosphere.

Keith’s breaths ring loud in his own ears as Shiro slowly draws his dirty shirt up and over his head, revealing the clean lines of his sculpted torso, skin that’s silky fine between rings of scarring, a perfect trail of hair that finishes down beneath his waistband. He can scarcely focus on anything but how broad and strong Shiro is as he leans down and in, with his metal hand braced on the wall behind the couch and the other skimming teasingly over Keith’s bulge.

“You worked _so_ hard today,” Shiro purrs into his ear, voice pitched sultry low as he drags out each word to maximize the burn they send coursing down Keith’s spine. His fingers find the hem of Keith’s shirt and toy with it. “Let me thank you.”

“Mm. How’s that?” Keith asks, angling his head to give Shiro easy access to the sensitive points along his neck.

Shiro hums against him, lips parting just enough for Keith to feel the teeth waiting behind them. “However you want.”

“Whatever _you_ want,” Keith whispers back as Shiro’s tongue slips over his skin, its tip tracing up along the curve of his jaw.

Shiro pauses, dropping the silky voice. “Jesus Christ. We can’t get caught in this loop again.”

Keith laughs, knowing it’s true. It’s worse than trying to choose where to eat for dinner, sometimes. “Fine. Let me think a minute.”

Keith takes the time to run his hands up Shiro’s chest, over heavy muscle that tightens under his touch. Everything about his shape screams perfection, and Keith is once again awed that Shiro is someone he has access to. Someone he can have and hold, can confide in, can see laid bare and vulnerable— and it’s almost too much. He wants this man in every way he can have him, and choosing just one at a time is its own small agony.

The unbridled moans that slip out of Shiro are meant to rile him up, and there’s nothing passive in the way he reacts to Keith’s every touch. It’s all flirtatious escalation: the way he angles his arms to press his pecs together, making them even fuller under Keith’s touch; how his body arches when Keith palms down his stomach, bottom lip pinched between his teeth; how Shiro licks his fingertips and runs them over his own dark nipples, holding unfaltering eye contact all the while.

Keith’s expression must show his indecision and borderline agony, because Shiro strikes quick and true. He rolls his hips insistently into Keith’s lap, teasing him further, eager to prompt him into action. “C’mon, Keith,” he challenges, voice reaching husky depths. “Show me what you want.”

Oh, that does the trick.

Shiro never stops being surprised at how easily Keith can lift him, even out of the blue. Never quite remembers just how much strength hides in Keith’s smaller frame, though it’s strung through with compact, efficient muscle picked up through years of mechanic work and kickboxing lessons with his uncles. The larger man lets out a small yelp as he’s hauled upward, hanging onto Keith’s shoulders as strong hands slide along the undersides of his thighs. He loves it, Keith knows, from the way he stammers and coils his legs tighter around Keith’s waist as he’s carried to the bedroom.

The bed’s a double with faded sheets that smell of Shiro and his honey-vanilla scented soap, and the man looks like a piece of art against the backdrop of washed-out black. Not that he ever looks anything less than gorgeous, as far as Keith is concerned, but there’s something special about Shiro sprawled out under him, flushed and panting. He tears through Shiro’s sweatpants because they’re ratty and paint-stained and it gives him an excuse to take Shiro shopping for more. The front seam rips with ease and the yank of the fabric drags his boyfriend’s hips toward Keith, the eagerness in the action twisting Shiro’s moan-parted lips into a breathless grin. He isn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Impatient,” Shiro teases, letting out a low, breathy laugh as he looks up at Keith from under a cast of dark, full lashes.

“Fuck patience,” Keith mutters as he drags his teeth up Shiro’s jaw, feeling the soft quake under his mouth as Shiro laughs again, his pretty head turning to the side for him.

There are nights when Shiro wants it slow and tender, drawn out to the point that Keith feels like his skin will split from the mounted pressure of his longing; nights where every ounce of his self-control is poured into staying his own satisfaction long enough to see Shiro relax as he slowly comes undone, taken apart one deep stroke at a time.

This isn’t one of them.

The moment he’s snug inside of Shiro, he loses himself. He lays Shiro back and fucks him hard, until his muscled thighs are trembling against Keith as he writhes into a beautiful arch. He drinks in every panted encouragement that passes Shiro’s kiss-bruised lips— _harder, faster, more, Keith, please!_

They’re both done within a matter of minutes, and with their shared hunger sated, Keith lays down directly on top of Shiro to bask in the afterglow of it. Under him, Shiro’s chest rises and falls. Their skin sticks from the sweat dried between them.

“Definitely need to shower,” Shiro murmurs after some time passes.

Keith reluctantly rolls off of him, knowing how true it is. Even before falling into bed, they were filthy from a day of painting and helping his mother and Kolivan pull up the old flooring.

It makes for a lot of unintentional elbowing, but they shower together. It’s partially a matter of comfort— they’re both equally clingy after sex, and this is the next best thing to snuggling in and falling asleep in a tangle— and partially for practicality’s sake. With his prosthetic removed, there are spots of paint up Shiro’s shoulder and back that he won’t be able to reach alone.

Keith likes scrubbing him down, anyway, and Shiro has a thing for being the one to wash Keith’s hair. It works out.

Once clean, Shiro asks if Keith wouldn’t mind sticking around for a bath— as if there’s any universe where Keith would ever say no. As the tub fills, Shiro picks out a bath bomb from a glass container piled high with them, sniffing through a few before settling on one that’s dark purple swirled through with pink, blue, and silvery white. Keith vaguely recognizes it from a recent shopping trip to a store devoted to bathtime goods, though he’d mostly just followed Shiro and Allura around as they loaded their baskets full of fancy soaps and body butters.

When the bomb goes in, the bathwater deepens to a vibrant royal blue streaked topped by wisps of steam and multicolored bubbles; it shimmers like the nighttime sky, flecked through with gold glitter that Keith reckons will be a bitch to clean out of the tub tomorrow.

“Okay, I see the appeal,” Keith admits as he watches Shiro lower himself in, hissing at the heat, supported by just one well-muscled arm on the rim of the bathtub. His boyfriend looks ethereal in the Milky Way waters, dark ripples lapping at his chest and the peaks of his bare knees, golden shimmer clinging to his skin.

He steps in next and bites his lip as he settles slow into the steamy water; Shiro’s wet hand guides Keith’s hips down, fitting them just between the firmness of his thighs. The heat is _exactly_ what Keith needed, and he’s silently grateful to Shiro for suggesting it. The water soothes over his sore muscles and coaxes the tension from his backv the perfect ending to a long and demanding day.

Keith sighs out and breathes in the scent of jasmine and sea salt, steam working its way into his chest. He eases back against Shiro and lazily trails his hand through the murky, space-dyed bathwater. When he cups it in his hands, it looks like the universe slipping through his fingers.

“Like it?” Shiro asks, and there’s some kind of smug certainty in his tone.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yes. It’s nice. It was totally worth the two hours it took you and Allura to pick it out—”

“We weren’t in there for two hours,” Shiro snorts, flicking water onto Keith.

Keith splashes him right back. “It felt like it.”

Above, there’s a distinct clatter and the rattle of plumbing as Shiro’s upstairs neighbor flushes the toilet. “Romantic,” Keith chuckles.

Shiro’s groan melts into a laugh. Though he can’t see it, Keith knows he’s rubbing his hand across his face. “I’ve heard so much worse. But I probably can’t complain, seeing as thin walls go both ways. I wasn’t exactly quiet earlier, was I?”

“Heh, _no_ ,” Keith answers, grinning.

“Between this and your family always knowing _exactly_ how many times we’ve fucked, I can’t catch a break,” Shiro complains — quietly, though, as the sound of heavy footsteps comes through the ceiling.

They soak together in silence for a few minutes, with Keith absently running his hands up and down Shiro’s legs under the water. He can feel Shiro draw breath, the warm solidity of his chest pressing into Keith’s spine; Shiro’s own fingers busy themselves in toying with the ends of Keith’s wet hair.

“If you could go anywhere in the world,” Keith eventually asks, “where would you choose?”

“I’m right where I want to be,” Shiro says, snaking his arm down around Keith to embrace him from behind, a cheek pressing against Keith’s damp hair.

A low, pleased sound rises in Keith’s throat of its own accord. He pushes back into Shiro until his head is tipped back across the man’s right shoulder; the feeling of security is unparalleled, and the warmth and comfort make him half-drowsy. “But if you _had_ to choose somewhere. Like, as a vacation.”

Shiro’s grunt is contemplative. “It would be fun to go to Disneyworld. Or the beach. But I’d mostly want to go visit my family in Nara. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to see my grandfather.”

“Maybe when things settle down,” Keith supposes.

A little snort from Shiro reverberates under Keith. “No idea when that’ll be. We still need to figure out what we’ll do about the truck…”

“Oh. I had an idea already, if it’s cool with you,” Keith says. He twists his head to get an eyeful of Shiro. “There’s this guy, Rolo, that I know from high school. We both, uh, got into some trouble, but he’s on the straight and narrow now, and he and his friend could really use a steady job.”

“If you trust them,” Shiro says after a moment’s thought. “If you think they’d be good for it.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, clearing his throat. He’s been in touch with Rolo and Nyma through texts, after Kolivan turned down the one-time chop shop mechanic’s request for an honest job. It’s not that he doesn’t understand Kolivan’s reservations, or even that he disagrees— but after getting several second chances in his own life, Keith’s not inclined to be too stingy in allowing them for others.

“He and Nyma are alright, but you can meet them and decide what you think. It’s your truck and your business, Shiro, so you get the final say. But they’re real people-people. Chatty and charming and stuff. And they have an Australian terrier named Beezer. He has his own instagram.”

Shiro nods at that. “Alright. Maybe we can get coffee with them this week. See if it’s a good fit.”

Keith sighs, relieved to be one step closer to getting the business in order. There’s no way Shiro can spread himself between the bakery truck and a brick-and-mortar store, and the sooner they can put someone else behind the wheel, the sooner he’ll be able to focus solely on the main enterprise.

“What about you, Keith?” Shiro asks. At Keith’s curious noise, he adds, “Where do you want to go?”

Keith starts ticking places off on his pruney fingers. “Yosemite, Yellowstone, Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, Kenai Fjords, Mount Ranier, the Badlands—”

“So pretty much just hitting all the national parks,” Shiro sums up, amusement running deep through his tone. “Just a full circuit, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much. I’m not opposed to state parks, too,” Keith adds. He went to a few with his father, mostly through Arizona and Texas, but they’d never had a chance to take their summer camping further north before he’d passed away. He’d like to see it all with Shiro, though, if he can convince the man to forsake his bakery and comforts for the wilderness.

“I wouldn’t mind some camping,” Shiro says, like he’s reading Keith’s mind. “Get away from the city, see some stars.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah.” Shiro smoothes his wet hand through Keith’s drying hair, probably depositing a coating of the bath water’s golden sparkle in the process. “But only with you.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a soft opening at the very end of March, once they’re mostly set. Rolo and Nyma have been handing out flyers over the past two weeks and spreading the word far and wide on social media— even Beezer’s been helping out with the promotion.

A few changes here and there still need to be made— some fixtures haven’t come in yet, a spot in the bathroom could use a touch-up of paint, and the sliding door in the back of the pastry case is sticky and hard to open. Keith keeps mental notes of every small flaw he finds, determined to see them all solved by day two.

The first wave of morning customers are all Marmora, corralled and filed in by Kolivan and Antok. They’re eager to see the end results of all their volunteered work, and even more eager to shower Shiro and Keith in warm well-wishes and congratulations.

While Shiro is swamped with filling orders, Keith handles the brunt of the onslaught of friends and relatives who ruffle his hair and ply him with gifts: handknit oven mitts from Antok and a crate of preserved lemons from his sister; Regris’ starry windchimes; Thace and Ulaz give them a pair of matching aprons; Kolivan brings wine, and a lot of it.

His mother sweeps him into a hug and whispers praise into Keith’s hair, a long-nailed thumb stroking across his cheek as she speaks quietly of how delighted his father would be to see him so happy, how proud he’d be of Keith’s hard work.

It’s all Keith can do to choke down the sob that comes unbidden at the thought of his dad. He wishes he were here to see it— to see him, to see what Keith’s made of his life. To see how well he remembered everything his father tried to teach him.

“I wish he could’ve met Shiro,” he tells Krolia, once he’s gathered his feelings, reining back his tears until they’re just a little extra dampness along his lashes. “He’d like him.”

“He would,” his mom agrees, her arms crossing tight. Her smile is faint, distant, _fond_ , revisiting their small and dusty desert home hundreds of miles away; when she’s present again, she lifts a brow and gives Keith’s cheeks a little squeeze, like she says she used to when he was a baby. “But not as much as I do.”

Keith laughs, half at the thought of how much Shiro had worried over alienating Keith’s family when he’s so well-liked. Admired. _Loved_.

They talk about the bakery, his father, and what Ulaz is wearing; it looks like maybe he forgot to take the surgical booties off of his shoes before he came here, and in the tight press of the bustling shop, no one else seems to have noticed yet. Regris is already hunkered in a corner with his laptop out. Kolivan is trying to establish some order and guide the people who’ve already gotten their pastries out of the store, but Antok’s blood family are in the way no matter where they stand, each of them twice as broad as any given Marmora.

“What a mess,” Keith snorts. And poor Shiro is caught in the midst of the storm. He needs to go help— is just about to say so and bid his mom goodbye when the look on her face stops him short.

“Keith… I’m not sure if this is the right time for this,” Krolia says, her voice muted under the clamor of multiple conversations. She pulls out a small box, simple and wooden, and hands it to Keith. “But I want you to have it, just in case.”

She folds her long-fingered hands around Keith’s before he can pry it open and see what’s inside. Her smile is just a hint at the corners of her mouth, there and gone in an instant. “It belonged to your father. And I think it’s been sitting in my jewelry box for far too long.”

His father’s?

Almost wary, he gently lifts the hinged lid open. The interior is a dark velvet, and cradled in its softness is a ring. It looks like hammered white gold, simple and almost matte in its textured finish. Keith tries slipping it on each of his fingers in turn, but it’s a smidge too big for even his thumb. He’d have to get it resized to wear it himself, but it would probably fit perfectly on—

On Shiro.

He swallows down an uncertain thrill as he stares at the ring resting heavy in his palm. The thought of sliding it onto Shiro’s finger has every nerve in his body alight with impulse. It’s a beautiful kind of simple, the hammered finish giving the ring a rough-hewn look. He can see why his father would’ve liked it; he thinks Shiro would find it appealing, too.

“I’m going to go congratulate Shiro,” Krolia says into his ear, drawing Keith out of his thoughts. She gives his shoulder a tight squeeze before she leaves, and her look is knowing. “And possibly save him from your cousins…”

“Please,” Keith says, nodding as he tucks the ring back into its box and fastens it safely in his jacket pocket. From where he stands, he can see Shiro’s worked up a sweat from trying to hold conversations while frantically bagging up orders and taking handfuls of money. “I’m gonna go help him on the register.”

The next hours pass in a flurry as Keith rings up orders with rote efficiency, his two years of part-time work at the pretzel stand in the mall coming in handy. The tip jar fills to brim, waves of customers leave happy, and he fields dozens of compliments on how charming the bakery is, even if many of the items listed in the pastry case are unfortunately sold out. Around noon Shiro scrambles back to the kitchen to try and bake enough additional cupcakes to meet rising demand; though harried and frantic, he grins as he tells Keith that this is the first time he’s run into a problem like this.

Shiro fields his own gaggle of well-wishing customers, too, though they come sporadic through the day. Some, Keith recognizes— Coran, Ms. Kwan, people from the local farmer’s market, the owner of the drugstore that Shiro frequents— and the rest are a parade of people who Shiro’s good heart has touched, glad to see him realizing a longstanding dream.

Allura arrives in a flouncy spring outfit, her hair coiled in two buns that remind Keith of Sailor Moon, with a bouquet of sunflowers, chrysanthemums, and pink roses. She’s all smiles as she leans across the counter to kiss Shiro’s cheeks, smiling bright as he fawns over the flowers.

“They’re beautiful, Allura. Thank you,” he says, giving her a one-armed hug across the expanse of the counter. “And thank you for everything else. I’d never have gotten this far without you letting me use your kitchen space in the very beginning.”

“Of course, Shiro,” she says, delicately fixing the arrangement after Shiro moves it into a glass pitcher-turned-makeshift vase. “After years of attending stuffy social functions as my ‘date,’ it’s the least I can do.”

Keith’s mouth quirks to the side. He’s only seen a handful of pictures from Shiro’s stint as Allura’s armcandy, meant to stave off the bothersome suitors that would have otherwise chased her every step at each party, gala, and benefit she attended— sleek and handsome in a tux, unscarred and physically imposing enough to deter any particularly bold assholes.

And Keith’s only conclusion is this: he needs to find or contrive some way to get Shiro back into a tuxedo.

“Oh, Shiro,” Allura sighs as she wanders her way around the counter, peering up and around with every step. “It’s _lovely_. You’ve utilized this space so well!”

“Keith ended up picking the colors,” Shiro announces, chest stuck out like it’s something to be proud of.

“Did he?” Allura circles back to them, stopping only to point out a small berry tarte on display, which Shiro promptly takes out for her. “You also did all of the construction, didn’t you?”

Keith shrugs, face burning as the two of them go back and forth admiring his work; Shiro spends a solid twenty minutes detailing everything Keith built or fixed with his own two hands, even to the point of demonstrating how quietly all the cabinet doors open and shut.

Things finally slow into the afternoon, near the posted closing time of three p.m., but only after Keith tapes a sign to the door listing how many items they no longer have available. He’s counting out the money from the register when the bell above the door chimes and he glances up to see a large man with a pie box enter.

He looks familiar, though Keith can’t immediately place him— dark skin and darker hair, floppy bangs held at bay by a neon headband. He’s bright-eyed but nervous as he approaches the counter.

“Hey, Keith? It _is_ Keith, right?”

Keith glances side to side, checking to make sure the stranger can’t possibly be addressing anyone else. But the cafe is almost empty, aside from a few of Keith’s younger cousins and their friends holed up in a corner with a whole cake split amongst their table. Shiro’s in and out of the kitchen, not paying much mind to Keith and the lone customer as he gathers dirtied dishes and wipes down the pastry case.

“Uh.” Keith doesn’t want to be impolite, but it’s a situation he’s not sure how to handle. “How do you know me?”

“Oh, sorry! Uh, I’m Hunk,” the man says, shuffling the pie box so he can offer his hand for a shake. “You probably don’t remember me, but we ran into each other down at the Sincline head offices last week.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” Keith says, smiling as he takes Hunk’s hand; it’s warm, and under the softness of his grip there’s considerable strength. “Can I get you something? We’ve sort of been cleared out…”

Hunk definitely notices the ransacked pastry case. “Actually, I was, uh, kind of hoping I could apply for a job?”

“A job?” Keith asks, tone flatter than he’d meant it to be. “Doing what?”

“Baking. Or like, assisting. Or working the front counter. I’d really rather work in the kitchen, though. If you’re not already all staffed up, that is.”

“No. I mean, it’s just the two of us right now,” Keith explains, gesturing to himself and Shiro, who’s now busy cleaning down the gorgeous wooden countertop under the espresso machine. “But I’m just a little confused. When we talked at Sincline, I didn’t realize you were a baker?”

Hunk tilts his head from side to side, thick eyebrows lifting high. “Well, I’ve been on the engineering track for a while, but cooking and baking are my first loves. Not that I don’t love engineering, too! And the money’s good, but…”

Keith waits as Hunk plunks the pie box down on the counter and sighs.

“But what you said to me in the lobby of Sincline HQ last week? It spoke to me,” Hunk says, a hand pressed over his heart. “I followed my head to Altea Tech and the internship at Sincline, but my heart’s in baking. And everything your boyfriend’s done to follow his dream has inspired me to go after mine, too.”

“Hi,” Shiro suddenly says from beside him, giving Keith a jolt. He reaches his metal arm over the counter to shake Hunk’s hand. “I’m Shiro.”

“Hunk,” he self-introduces, smiling broadly. “I heard _so_ much about you from Keith. Honestly, your whole story is just — wow. I wish I’d had the courage to take a leap like that. I mean— I mean, I kind of did, in a way? By leaving Sincline, I mean. Kinda late, but better than never, am I right?”

“Right, sure,” Shiro says, nodding. “Could I please have one second alone with Keith? Just a sec.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, man. Shiro. I’ll, uh wait right here,” Hunk says, his fingers strumming anxiously on the counter.

Shiro’s hand curls around Keith’s bicep and gently pulls him to the far side of the counter, as far out of hearing range as they can be without losing sight of the register. His boyfriend leans in, brow furrowed, and asks, “Keith, did you poach this guy from _Sincline Energy_?”

“No,” Keith responds, knee-jerk. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro says, “but it sort of sounds like you convinced him to leave an internship at one of the biggest tech companies in this hemisphere for our _bakery_.”

“I did not,” Keith snorts. He’d never done anything remotely like that— it’d never cross his mind to scour Lotor’s personnel for _bakery staff_ , for one. “Look, I went to pay Lotor a visit and I brought a box of your cupcakes for the reception staff, like I usually do. Hunk and I started talking while we waited for the elevator and he was curious about the cupcakes, so I gave him one. He was impressed, which isn’t surprising. He had some questions, so I started talking about you…”

And he might’ve ended up waxing poetic about Shiro and his baking dream for twenty minutes, now that Keith thinks back on it. All revved up on the opportunity to sing Shiro’s praises, it’s possible that he filled Hunk’s head with enough inspirational talk to sway him from even the cushy benefits of a career at Lotor’s company.

“Shit.” He plants his hands on his hips and stares at the rich flooring he’d spent a week installing. “Shit, I might’ve.”

“Well,” Shiro sighs, running a hand back through his hair before slumping his arms at his sides. “Fuck. It sounded like he already left Sincline, didn’t it? Is he banking on a job here?”

Keith shrugs.

“Would Lotor be pissed if we hired him?” Shiro continues. “Can we afford to have the acting CEO of Sincline pissed at us? Should we tell him to go back?”

Keith shrugs again, more emphatically. “Look, I’ll deal with Lotor if I have to. It’s not my fault if hearing about you and your bakery helped him follow his heart or whatever. It’s Hunk’s call. And we can— I don’t know… hear him out, at least.”

Shiro cranes his head to look back at Hunk, who’s currently tapping his fingertips together in a painfully nervous gesture. He touches his metal fingers to his face as he mulls it over. “We really could use an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. Nyma said the truck ran out before noon, too, and I’m not sure how we’ll meet demand, just the two of us.”

They make their way back to the register side-by-side, where Hunk waits with an expression of mixed hope and fear.

“I brought my famous strawberry-rhubarb pie as my resume,” Hunk immediately says as he opens the pie box and carefully withdraws the dessert within. It’s beautiful— picture-perfect, ready for the cover of a housekeeping magazine— and smells mouth-wateringly delicious. His confidence falters and he adds, “B-but I also have a traditional paper resume, too, if you need some references.”

“Wow. It looks great,” Shiro says, reaching under the counter to grabs a plate and a fork. He lets Hunk cut and dole out the slice, angling his head and remarking on how beautifully set the filling is.

Keith takes the first bite and then passes the fork to Shiro— and feels the loss keen and swift, because he’s already craving more before he’s even swallowed his first bite. It’s _that_ good. An ideal balance of tangy sour and sweet, the buttery crust flaked to perfection, the fruit still vibrant and somehow tasting of ripe, sun-drenched summer. He could stand here and eat the whole dish.

It’s better than Shiro’s pie. The thought alone feel traitorous, and even hot coals couldn’t make him admit as much to his boyfriend.

Fortunately, Shiro takes care of that dilemma himself. “Oh my god,” he whispers in between bites, just for Keith’s ears. “Fuck. Keith, it’s so much better than mine. It’s— I don’t even know what he did, but it’s _so good_. He has a gift.”

“Your pies are good, too,” Keith reminds him. And they are— tasty and well-baked, though they’re far from his speciality— but not like _this_. Keith grabs the fork back to take another bite.

“I’ve gotten complacent,” Shiro says through a full mouth, his expression a mix of hard introspection and hungry delight. “This is unbelievable. We _have_ to hire him, Keith. There are plenty of other engineers out there for Sincline, but Hunk’s meant to be doing _this_ ,” he adds, taking in another generous forkful of the strawberry-rhubarb pie.

“Uh, hi,” Hunk pipes up from the other side of the counter. “Did you guys want to see my actual resume or is the pie good enough?”

“More than good enough,” Keith tells him mid-chew. Hunk struck him as a decent guy on their first meeting, and the pie goes a long way to convincing him that he’s worth bringing on board.

“If you’d really rather work here than Sincline, you’re welcome to,” Shiro says, smiling. “Though I’d feel guilty if I didn’t ask you to consider what you’re trading. We’ll pay well, but nothing close to what you could make as an engineer at a company like that.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” Hunk laughs, looking relieved for the first time since he walked in. He offers them the rest of the pie, which Keith leaps on, stabbing directly into it with the intent to devour at least half. “I’m good, though. I decided I’d rather be spending my time doing what I love most, you know? I think that’s worth it.”

Keith catches the brightness of Shiro’s smile and suspects they’re going to get along well.

 

* * *

 

It’s during a spring downpour that Keith notices the puppy, curled beside a dumpster in an alleyway they pass on the way to Shiro’s apartment.

He stops short, heartstrings drawn taut at the sight of it: small and soaked, hunched as the rain drips down onto it from the sheaf of cardboard it’s taken refuge under. Miserable and alone, probably shivering from the cold front’s chill. It’s one-hundred times more heart-wrenching than even the commercials with Sarah McLaughlin playing in the background, and Keith cannot let this stand.

He seizes Shiro’s hand on instinct, bodily pulling the larger man to a halt. It startles Shiro into silence mid-sentence, and he makes sure to keep the umbrella squarely over Keith’s head as he leans in to ask what’s wrong.

“The dog,” Keith says as he tugs Shiro toward the alley with him, heedless of his boyfriend’s surprised, “What dog?”

“Oh,” Shiro says softly when they’re hovering in front of the small pup, tucked so pitifully against a trash heap. “Oh, baby.”

Keith kneels in front of the puppy, soft and slow as he reaches out to stroke its wet fur while Shiro extends the umbrella to cover them both. Blearily, it lifts his head and tries to lean into the touch, and Keith feels a pang through his chest that threatens to send him reeling backward.

It blinks up at him slow, those clear blue eyes boring straight into his soul, and though he's only been in the presence of this puppy for twenty seconds, Keith would fight the entire universe for it.

“We can’t leave it here,” he says as he scoops the wet puppy into his arms and cradles it against his chest. It takes a little careful juggling, but he’s able to zipper up his jacket around the pup like a kangaroo pouch.

Keith turns to look up at Shiro, desperate.

“My apartment has a strict no-pet policy,” Shiro says softly, eyes on the fuzzy head poking out of Keith’s jacket. “They wouldn’t even let me have a fish…”

Keith tucks his chin as he looks down at the little dog. It’s black and a dingy, muddy grey, with oversized ears that remind him of a bat. “Half my family is allergic to dogs. I’ve never been able to have one.”

Above him, Shiro takes in a deep breath. “Alright. I don’t know how this is going to work, but we can sneak the dog into my place,” he says as he wraps an arm around Keith to draw him in closer under the umbrella. “Just… once we’re inside, make sure you zip up all the way. The landlord already hates me, so expect no mercy if we’re caught.”

“Is it because of the time you forgot the brownies you were making—”

“Yes, Keith, it’s because of that.”

They hustle home and slip into Shiro’s building with the slinking air of thieves or other low criminals; Shiro doesn’t relax until they’re safely locked in his apartment, sighing out loud as he leans back against the dinged up wooden door.

They give the puppy a warm bath with Shiro’s nice shampoo, scrubbing away the grit in her fur until her coloration shows clear: white fur rings her eyes and crowns her head, while the full and fluffy coat along her back is silvery grey. It’s a wide streak that runs from her neck down to the tip of her tail, almost skunklike. It reminds Keith of Shiro, but the older man’s a little less than enthused by the comparison.

They towel her off, and the extent of her floof becomes apparent without the muck and rainwater matting her fur down. She’s squirmy and bold, determined to investigate Shiro’s apartment with the two of them tailing her every step of the way. All tuckered out by the time she’s done exploring, the dog flops down onto the carpet without preamble, nearly tripping them both.

Shiro ends up scooping her into his arms like a baby, gently bouncing the puppy as he paces the small living room. He lifts one of her paws and delicately squeezes her padded toes.

“You’re going to be a _big girl_ , aren’t you?” he asks, and Keith wonders if he realizes that he’s dangerously close to slipping into baby-talk. Shiro tucks her head under his chin as he looks pointedly at Keith. “She’s going to be a big dog, Keith. Look at the size of these paws.”

“They’re perfect paws,” Keith comments as he texts his mom to let her know why he won’t be home in time for dinner.

“How is this going to work?” Shiro mutters some minutes later. The puppy is already fast asleep against the softness of his sweater-covered chest, her legs jutting straight into the air with her fat little toes splayed. “Puppy training pads? Like, a lot of them? Do I wrap her up like a baby when I need to take her outside to pee? Put her in a tote bag?”

“Uh, let me call my mom,” Keith says, uncertain. It’s not the ideal start to pet ownership, for sure. “I’ll ask if she can pick up some supplies for us.”

Krolia is quick to agree, and every text she follows up with includes a dog emoji. As they wait, the rain worsens, then slows, then breaks enough to let the sun slip through. The puppy dozes through it all, already snug and content.

While Keith takes his turn cradling her, Shiro snaps a hundred plus pictures of them. He happily reports each and every twitter comment he gets to Keith: Allura demanding to meet her straight away, Hunk and Pidge’s weepy reaction images, Nyma and Rolo suggesting a playdate with Beezer.

Krolia’s eventual arrival is heralded with a heavy kick at the door. Shiro opens it and immediately starts stammering that he could’ve come downstairs to help her carry everything up.

“That’s sweet of you, Shiro,” she says as she lowers a thirty pound bag of puppy chow from her rain-soaked shoulders and then starts sliding bulging bags from the pet supply store off of her arms. “But it wasn’t a problem.”

“Even with the elevator being out?” Shiro asks as he starts sifting through the bags, which contain everything a new dog owner might possibly need.

Krolia’s already moved on. She crosses Shiro’s apartment in a few long-strided steps, her jacket still wet with beaded rainwater, and stands over Keith’s place on the couch with the puppy in his lap. “Well. That’s adorable.”

“She’s a good dog,” Keith agrees. He likes the feel of her fluffy fur under his hands, now almost dry. “Look at how tiny her teeth are,” he says as he pulls back her upper lip with his thumb. “And they’re super sharp. She nibbles.”

“I know how much you always wanted a dog.” His mother isn’t quite frowning, but there’s more on her mind than how cute the dog is. “Is Shiro going to be keeping her?”

Keith looks over his mother’s shoulder, at Shiro, and bites his lip. “I don’t know. They don’t allow animals here.”

“I see,” Krolia says, her lips slightly pursed. “Well, I picked her out a collar and a leash, and I’m sure she could use a trip outside to go to the bathroom by now. I’ll sneak her down to the park around the corner and be back in a little bit.”

She delicately lifts the pup out of Keith’s arms, cooing softly as the dog squeaks as she’s roused from her nap. Cradling her in one arm, Krolia manages to slip the light teal collar around her neck and affix the matching nylon leash. Like Keith, she slips the puppy inside her motorcycle jacket and zips it high. It’s the perfect concealment, aside from the occasional squeak or hint of chestburster-like movement.

Shiro locks the door behind her as she leaves, his shoulders slumping in.

“Look, Keith,” he says, one hand on his hip and the other braces against the counter, “I’ve thought about it, and there’s no way that keeping a dog here will work.”

Words Keith doesn’t want to hear but nonetheless knows are true. As his heart sinks, he draws his feet up onto the couch and nods, saying nothing.

“I’ll have to find a new apartment,” Shiro continues, shrugging like it’s the only reasonable conclusion. His easy certainty makes Keith’s breath catch at the base of his throat, a muddled mix of relieved and surprised. Shiro paces as he airs the rest of his thoughts. “One that’s pet friendly. Big dog friendly. And I’ll have to break my lease, I guess, but that shouldn’t be a huge loss—”

“You don’t have to move just because I want a dog in my life,” Keith tells him, still processing Shiro’s willingness to go through that much trouble.

Shiro stares at him, blinking slow. Without saying a word, he approaches the couch, reaches out, and waits for Keith to take his hand.

It’s so easy for Shiro to haul him to his feet, even with just one arm. Keith lets it happen, trusting Shiro to guide him. Lets Shiro pull him close, hip-to-hip, holding him like they’re about to start slow dancing. He leans into the warmth of Shiro’s embrace and wrinkles his nose at the lingering smell of wet dog.

“It’s to make you happy, Keith,” Shiro says, turning his head so his cheek rests on Keith’s crown. His prosthetic hand fans across Keith’s back to keep him exactly this close; his left laces fingers with Keith. “You love dogs. You love _this_ dog. And I just want you to have what you’ve always wanted.”

Keith nods against Shiro’s chest, comforted by the gentle rocking of Shiro’s sway. He _does_ want it, fiercely, and Shiro’s insistence puts his heart at ease. He wants this to work — wants to keep the puppy safe and give her a good life, wants quiet companionship in Shiro’s absence and sunny walks in the dog park, wants more of Shiro making kissy faces at that ball of fluff.

“Besides,” Shiro says, “the truck is bringing in enough that I can afford to move out of semi-squalor. Maybe even a place where we don’t have to hear my neighbors taking a shit.”

Keith laughs, liking the thought of that. He listens while Shiro rambles about other benefits of moving— new neighborhood, new restaurants, and closer to the bakery, hopefully.

He listens and _thinks_ , his nails raking gently up and down Shiro’s back, along his arms. The picture Shiro’s painting is idyllic— some cozy new apartment above a grocery or beside a park, with a bigger kitchen and room for a growing puppy to romp, windows that aren’t painted shut, and a view of more than just the side of a dingy brick building. But as much as he loves the thought of visiting Shiro and their dog, Keith can’t help but feel like something’s missing from the fantasy.

“You’re quiet, Keith,” Shiro observes, halting his sway but keeping him close.

“I’m just… grateful,” Keith says, hiding his face in Shiro’s front. What he wants now is another leap, even bigger than the one Shiro’s spent the last ten minutes hashing out. Nerves make his palms clammy, but Keith forges ahead anyway.  “But I was wondering, if you’re really planning on finding a new place anyway, maybe we could… move in together?”

Shiro gapes for a moment, and Keith wonders if he did it all wrong— it’s his first time for all of this, for navigating a serious relationship, and he’ll never stop being terrified of fucking it up— but then Shiro’s face brightens and the corner of his mouth pulls back in a smile. “K-Keith, of course! I’d love that. Hell, I’d have asked, but...”

Shiro’s words stop there, his smile a touch uncertain.

But Keith’s only ever lived with his family, outside of a short stint in the foster system after his father died, while his mother struggled to make arrangements from her remote U.N. station overseas. They’re tight-knit, and Keith hadn’t anticipated leaving home unless he married, which had never seemed likely enough to concern himself with.

As if he can read Keith’s thoughts, Shiro asks, “But will your family be okay with you moving out, though? I mean, they won’t, like… _blame_ me, will they?”

It’s not a conversation Keith is looking forward to, for sure.

“No. You’re golden,” Keith tells him, knowing that much is true. His closest family members adore Shiro, and this alone isn’t enough to shake the roots of that; still, some short-term disappointment is likely. “It definitely wouldn’t hurt if you baked a few cakes for when I tell them, though.”

“You sure know how to reassure a man,” Shiro snorts, but he seems a little more at ease. “We’ll need to find a place as soon as possible. Like, in the next day or two, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep her under wraps much longer than a week. I can ask Matt to keep an eye on her while I’m at the bakery, since he’s working from home. And she still needs a name, by the way.”

“ _I_ get to name her?”

“You’re the one who found her, Keith,” Shiro chuckles, as if it should be obvious. He tucks Keith’s hair behind his ear, thumb lingering fondly on the curve of his cheek. “You ought to pick the name.”

A hundred times he’s imagined having a dog of his own, and somehow Keith’s drawing a blank. Had he ever floated names? None come to mind now.

His mom returns with the puppy wriggling in her arms, making tiny yips and squeals until she’s set down; immediately, the dog motors toward Keith, her oversized paws making _pap pap pap_ noises across the floor.

He lifts her up, trying not to be too overwhelmed as she clambers up against his throat and hides in his hair. It’s a lot of responsibility, naming her. Keith opens the floor for suggestions and then immediately closes it after receiving terrible input from both his mom and Shiro (Yurak and Fluffy, respectively).

“I’m going to give you a _good_ name,” Keith promises her, whispering so that the other two won’t hear. He racks his brain for names he likes, and but his thoughts keep circling back to late night conversations with Shiro and the astronomy documentaries he likes to leave playing as he falls asleep. They can’t see the stars from here in the city, not really, and Keith thinks that’s a damn shame.

“Nova,” he decides, pressing a finger lightly to her wet nose.

* * *

 

Dinner is roasted lamb and spring vegetables from the greenhouse. Earlier in the day, Keith had helped Antok pick the artichokes and pull up the beets, filling a wooden basket while his uncle hummed to himself as he watered the raised beds. Later, after spending a few hours packing up his things in his room, he’d come down and helped Kolivan prep for dinner.

The table is unusually sparse, and Keith is grateful— Regris is with Antok’s sister, Kalat and Krolia are visiting a sick friend, Ulaz is working a long shift at the hospital, and there are no guests over for the meal.

That leaves only Thace, Kolivan, and Antok for him to contend with tonight. The conversation comes slow, and for a long while the only real sounds are their silverware clinking against china and Antok tearing into his lambchop like he’s stripping the meat from a rib.

“You’re not… disappointed that I’m moving out, are you?” Keith asks as he pokes at the roasted vegetables on his plate. At once, the quiet sounds of dining pause.

Krolia had already given him her full support, but what else could she say? Some twenty-plus years ago, she’d run off into the desert with a volunteer fireman she’d known for all of three weeks and upended the Marmora family. What Keith’s doing is tame by comparison, but there’s been a quiet tension in the house ever since Keith broke the news yesterday— that he and Shiro’d found an apartment to share and would be moving in together in less than a week— that is akin to the somberness of grieving.

With a sigh, Kolivan stops sawing into his lamb and lowers his arms, head tilting the barest bit. “No, Keith. Of course not.”

“Even though Shiro and I aren’t married yet? Or engaged or anything?” Keith’s not nervous that they’ll be angry, not really, but Kolivan’s old-fashioned in so many ways, and Antok’s family is just as traditional. They certainly hadn’t been _pleased_ that his mom and dad never married before absconding into the desert together.

Antok and Kolivan snort in unison, like the concern is laughable. “No, Keith,” Kolivan says with a tired smile. “I don’t believe anyone is _remotely_ worried about that.”

“I think we all just assumed Shiro would eventually move in here with us,” Thace comments in between carefully assembled bites.

Kolivan nods and shoots Keith a hopeful look. “We would still be very amenable to that.”

“The biggest reason is Nova,” Keith reminds them. “She can’t stay here, unless Thace and Regris want to survive on allergy pills for the next fifteen years—”

“I don’t,” Thace interjects, like there’s any question.

“It’s best to be near your family, that’s all,” Kolivan says as he pokes around his own plate. “We’ve come to terms with your leaving, but we’ll miss having you near. I understand your reasons, though, and your desire for more privacy and autonomy. You are very much my sister’s son,” he sighs.

Keith smiles down at his plate.

“And you’ll still be close enough to visit,” his uncle continues, and it almost feels like he’s saying it aloud to reassure himself and Antok. He pauses here, looking Keith in the eye with dead serious intent. “And you _will_ visit?”

“And with Shiro?” Antok adds on.

“Of course,” Keith assures them. He can’t imagine anything less. Since his father’s death, Kolivan has been the foundation of his upbringing, a constant even when his mother was called away to her work overseas for months at a time. “Every week. And you can always come see us at the bakery, too.”

Kolivan nods to himself, satisfied with that, and the air feels a little clearer after. “Then all is in order.”

“How are things at the bakery?” Thace asks, resuming dinner with lighter conversation. “And how are the kids? Ulaz said that the baklava he had the other day was wonderful.”

“I’ll pass that along,” Keith says, smiling around a mouthful of food. For the summer, Shiro and Hunk had taken on a few recent graduates Keith had been working with as apprentices, teaching them the ins and outs of working in a bakery kitchen. “It’s been great. A few extra crispy batches of cupcakes, but overall they really seem to be enjoying it.”

As he helps Kolivan wash the dishes, Keith reflects on how much he’ll miss this: dinner around a table made to sit ten, the quiet routine of drying the dishes for either Antok or Kolivan or his mom, curling up on the couch to draw while his relatives drink and talk until ten. As much as he’s looking forward to a new turn in his life and a shared space with Shiro and Nova, he already feels some small twinge of homesickness.

“We’re very proud of you,” Kolivan says as he hands Keith the heavy platter that had held the lamb, wet and dripping. “ _I_ am very proud of you, and the man you’ve become.”

Keith nods as he towels off the hand-painted ceramic, swallowing down the sort of choked emotion that always makes his voice crack. “Thanks.”

“I suspect you and Shiro will be very happy. Your mother certainly seems confident,” he adds, an amused huff slipping out. “But I want you to know that you can always come home, any time and for any reason.”

Keith sets the half-dried platter on the counter and hugs Kolivan tight around his middle. With a little sigh, Kolivan gives in and hugs him back— wet, soapy hands and all.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes to an empty bed. A _suspiciously_ empty bed, now that he’s gotten used to falling asleep snug against Shiro each night and waking up sprawled across him by morning. The charcoal grey sheets and elegantly woven cover are rumpled where Shiro slept, and his side of the king-sized mattress has gone cold.

It’s the twenty-third of May and it’s a day off for both of them— Hunk, Rolo and Nyma are holding down the fort in the bakery today while the truck is in the shop for a tune-up— and Shiro never misses an opportunity to sleep in. Nova is missing, too, leaving the foot of the bed empty but for one of her many stuffed toys.

Keith sits up to take stock of the situation, fully awake as he looks around the bedroom for some sign of either of them. It’s quiet. The attached bathroom is dark. Shiro’s phone isn’t sitting on his nightstand, and his slippers are missing, too.

And that’s when he hears it— a bark from the kitchen and Shiro’s muffled voice hushing her, followed by the soft pad of slippered footsteps down the hallway.

Shiro shoulders his way through the almost-closed bedroom door, eyes fixed on the tray in his hands; it’s piled high with food and two sloshing glasses of orange juice and milk, plus a slender vase with a single lilac rose. He’s a little startled when he turns and finds Keith already up, but he takes it in stride.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

“Good morning,” Keith croaks back. Shiro looks like he’s been up for hours already, wide awake and relatively put together, even if he’s still in pajama bottoms and a tank top. Meanwhile, Keith can see a sliver of himself in the floor-length mirror across the room, his hair a wild mess and his face still bearing imprinted lines from the seams of his pillow. He rubs away the dried drool at the corner of his mouth.

“Breakfast in bed?” Keith asks as Shiro delicately sets the tray over his lap.

Shiro nods, beaming bright. “I made stuffed French toast and six— _six —_ different kinds of meat for you,” he brags, holding up six fingers for emphasis, “with a fried egg just how you like it, and some fruit and fresh orange juice.”

It’s a big spread, and every bit looks delicious. There’s a smiley face made of berries atop the French toast, with a blob of whipped cream that’s reminiscent of Shiro’s blanched bangs. Keith shoos Nova away as she hops onto the bed to sniff at his breakfast.

“Nova, you have your food already,” Shiro says, picking up the growing pup around the middle and carrying her out to her food bowl in the kitchen. His voice comes faint down the hall. “No. No more bacon. Stop asking for it. I’m cutting you off, kiddo.”

Keith chuckles to himself as he nibbles on a slice of orange, first, and then swirls a piece of spicy sausage in maple syrup before chomping into it. The French toast is buttery bliss, perfectly fluffy and stuffed with sweetened cream cheese and lingonberries. Every bite is wonderful, of course, and he’s halfway through the meat pile when Shiro returns with his own small plate of breakfast.

“So what’s the occasion?” Keith asks, unable to stymy the smile tugging at his lips. He knows why they’re celebrating today, absolutely— he’d be a fool not to.

Shiro’s gaze slides to him, trying hard to look unamused by the question. “You know _exactly_ what day it is,” he says as he steals a grape from Keith’s breakfast tray. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“The day I started chasing you,” Keith murmurs. A year to the day, though it feels like so much longer ago. One revolution since he laid eyes on Shiro and knew he’d do stupid, ridiculous things just to be near him.

“I knew you knew,” Shiro murmurs, grinning sly as he traps Keith’s mouth in a kiss that tastes like maple and fresh strawberries. “Why else would you rearrange everyone’s schedule to give us today off?” he pries. “Did you really think I’d forget the first time you showed up to save the day?”

“I was kind of hoping you would so I could surprise you,” Keith says, meaning it. He sets his nearly finished tray of food on his nightstand, careful not to tip the vase. “But you beat me to the punch.”

Shiro’s proud of that, and Keith suspects it’s why he went the breakfast route— first to start the celebration. He leans in close, voice velvety low. “Surprise me how, Keith?”

“I made us dinner reservations at that new fondue place you wanted to try,” Keith says, lips moving over Shiro’s as he speaks. “Even though it’s going to be murder on your stomach.”

“Mm, all that cheese. So worth it,” Shiro says, grinning as he kisses Keith so fervently that he’s pushed back down into the bed.

Keith loves mornings like this, with time to be lazy and languid together, to indulge in that half-drowsy bliss that only lasts until the day begins in earnest. He pulls Shiro in for what he wishes could be a never ending chain of kisses, each a little deeper than the last; they tangle together in the twisted sheets, clothes hiked up and shimmied down their hips so they can feel each other skin-to-skin. The bed is warm and sun-drenched already, and he’s worked into a sweaty mess by the time Shiro finishes giving him one of the best handjobs of his life.

They wash off together afterward and Keith repays the favor in kind, pinning Shiro to the black soapstone walls as he leaves his knees weak and his throat well-marked. Keith continues to be grateful for the luxuriously large shower and its _three_ showerheads, ensuring neither of them is ever left in the cold.

While they dress, Shiro chatters excitedly about their dinner plans. Keith listens as he shaves, and it’s hard to keep his expression steady for each pass of the blade as Shiro enthusiastically lists everything he wants to dip in cheese.

Keith suggests they take Nova for a walk and grab some burritos for lunch. There’s a place down Pollux Avenue with outdoor seating, so they could sit with her while they eat. Shiro loves the idea.

Keith holds the leash so that Shiro can focus on catching pokemon as they walk, in between stops to get pictures of Nova going toe-to-toe with scythers and magikarps. He’s grateful for his boyfriend’s distraction, actually— with their arms looped together, Keith’s able to more or less steer him toward the real surprise he has planned without Shiro being any the wiser.

They cross town at a decent pace. Nova’s growing legs allow her to keep up with the strides of her owners, though Keith’s fully prepared to carry her back home if she gets tuckered out. Eventually the streets change, and the sidewalk broadens slightly as they approach one of the city’s many parks, complete with a shady walking trail that loops around a small pond.

Keith clears his throat. “Shiro.”

“Uh huh. Just one second.” It takes a little longer than that, but he soon grins and holds up his phone for Keith to see. “Got it.”

Keith’s eyes drift to the screen, a smile spreading. “Charmander, huh?”

“Want me to name it after you?” Shiro asks, genuinely excited about it.

Keith presses a hand over his heart. “Shiro, I’d be honored.”

It’s probably the fortieth pokemon Shiro’s named after him. Keith’s lost track, honestly, aside from a few memorable ones like Keithachu, Fennekeith, and Togekeith. He watches as Shiro mouths along as he types in each letter, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love he feels for the man walking arm-in-arm beside him.

“Shiro,” he says again, gently slowing Shiro to a stop. He draws up Nova’s leash so she’s close to their feet as they stand at the edge of the sidewalk, tucked tight along the green-painted wrought iron fence that borders the park.

People continue to bustle past, but the way is wide and Keith’s got them as out of the way as they can possibly be. This particular spot— this exact stretch of concrete— is significant, and he doesn’t want to budge an inch.

“Is everything okay?” Shiro asks as he pockets his phone, all concern for why they’re taking an unexpected rest stop. “Is it Nova? Do you want me to carry her?”

“Shiro… um, look around,” Keith says, using the moment to take a deep breath.

Shiro does as told, gaze roaming over the storefronts across the street and the stretch of green grass and shady trees just on the other side of the fence. “What am I supposed to be looking for, exactly?” His tone shifts, expression suddenly hard enough to cut the unwary. “Is some asshole bothering you? Did someone say something?”

“No,” Keith hurriedly assures him, hands splayed on Shiro’s chest to soothe his riled boyfriend. “No, it’s not anything like that. I mean, where are we, Shiro? Somewhere familiar?”

Shiro blinks and tries again, head swiveling as he gets his bearings. “There’s that diner with the good bathrooms. And this is the park where that skeezy pervert— oh! _Oh!_ Where we first met!” Shiro realizes, brightening with the stellar quality of a supernova. “Is this the spot? _The_ spot exactly?”

“One year since I met you, right here,” Keith nods. “My life’s changed a lot since then, Shiro. It’s better with you in it, and I thank my lucky stars every day for that. Uh, so, I got these,” he says, licking his lips as he pulls out a neatly folded set of papers. He can’t help but feel like he ought to be down on one knee as he offers them to Shiro, like a supplicant making an offering, but his properly socialized forebrain discourages the gesture.

Shiro smiles curiously as he unfolds them, every movement made with care, his lips moving the barest bit as he reads his way down the page.

Keith had wanted tickets— actual, physical plane tickets, like he half-remembers seeing in old movies— but the best he can do in a digital era is printed off confirmations. “We can always change the dates or the departure times or the seats or whatever. I can get tickets for a totally different flight, a different airline. Anything, Shiro. I just wanted to have something real to g-give you—”

He’s rocked back as Shiro throws himself into Keith’s arms, burying his face the crook of his neck and taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Keith.”

People stare at them as they pass, and Keith knows they’re in the way, even pushed to the edge of the sidewalk. He doesn’t care in the slightest. There are tears on the slope of his shoulder, dampness along the collar of his shirt, and he hadn’t mean to make Shiro cry in public like this.

“Shiro?” he asks, throat so tight it’s barely more than a whisper. He rubs circles across Shiro’s back, mimicking what his mother and Kolivan would do for him whenever he was overwhelmed. It’s fleeting, but he wonders if Shiro’s upset with him, if he crossed a line somewhere in assuming he’d be welcome to visit Shiro’s family. “If you’d rather go by yourself—”

“No.” It’s immediate, as is the constriction around Keith’s chest as Shiro grips him harder and holds him closer. “I want you with me wherever I go, Keith.”

Keith can’t speak, and not just because Shiro’s embrace is slowly squeezing the air from his lungs. If he tries, he’ll end up crying, too.

“And right now I want to go for a walk in the park,” Shiro says as he trades the hug for a tightly laced twine of their fingers. He probably can tell they’re obstructing foot traffic, and Shiro cares enough about what strangers think to feel uncomfortable about it. At a little yip from Nova, he stoops to pick her up.

“Yeah, sure,” Keith says as they head for the nearest entrance. They can always grab lunch after.

Shiro shifts Nova to one arm so he can pull up his collar to wipe at his face, lashes fluttering as he holds back additional tears. He’s grinning, though, through all of it.

Still, anxiety needles at Keith, and confirmation would help alleviate his doubts. “So, just to be clear, you’re _happy —_”

“Fuck, Keith. _Yes_. Oh my God. This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced, hands down. I don’t know how you’ll ever top it.”

“Just wait until our actual one-year anniversary,” Keith says, thinking of the night he and Shiro first realized they were more or less dating. He hasn’t made concrete plans yet, except for reservations at a ritzy restaurant that he had to ask a favor from Lotor to snag. It has two Michelin stars and the head pastry chef won a James Beard award and their flan will ruin all other flans for you, and Keith only knows these things because Shiro mentions them at least twice a month.

“I wanted to give you, like, actual tickets,” Keith says as he takes the papers back, folds them, and slips them back into his pocket. “But I figured this was better than showing you the boarding passes on my phone…”

“It’s perfect,” Shiro says, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it. At Nova’s wriggling, he stops to set her back down so that she can trot along beside them.

“And we can go anytime,” Keith continues, rubbing his thumb along Shiro’s soft inner wrist as they walk. “Whenever you’d like. I just picked fall because I thought it would be pretty. And not so hot.”

“Absolutely,” his boyfriend agrees, sun-dappled from the tree cover, a dreamy sigh following after.

“I figured three weeks would give you plenty of time to catch up with your family and see some sights without leaving the bakery for too long, but we can stay longer. Or shorter.”

“Three weeks sounds just right, Keith.”

“And I didn’t really pay much mind to the airline, but if you have a preference…”

“Keith, you nailed it. I wouldn’t change a thing. Honest. I’ve flown with this airline before, actually, and I remember it being nice. I mean, as nice as coach can be,” Shiro laughs. He bites lightly at his lip, a smile catching at the corners of his mouth. “You know, I’ve never flown first-class.”

Keith answers it with a smile of his own. “Me, either.”

 

* * *

 

Business never lets up, and while Keith couldn’t be happier to see Shiro smiling as he balances the books each week, it makes for some hectic days with just the three of them manning the operation. Enough that he admits to Shiro that he’d like to bring on another person to help lighten the load behind the counter.

“How’s the search going?” Shiro’s standing at the kitchen island, where ash-toned cabinets are topped with polished black galaxy granite. The sounds of pouring cereal and milk rouse Nova out of her nap, and she immediately lopes into the kitchen to beg for some Lucky Charms.

“Poorly,” Keith says as he tosses an application from some guy named Varkon into the reject pile on the coffee table. It’s possible that he’s being too picky— probable, even— but the last thing Keith wants to do is put Shiro’s bakery and shining reputation in the hands of anyone less than worthy.

At the moment, he’s nursing a growing headache. He takes a break and watches as Shiro leaves his bowl of cereal on the coffee table and then doubles back to fish a slightly crumpled paper from his workout duffel by the door.

“I might be able to help with that,” Shiro says as he joins Keith on the couch, smiling tight-lipped as he hands over the paper.

“Another one?” Keith groans. The search has been long and fruitless, and Shiro’s only making it longer.

Shiro scoops a few bites of cereal into his mouth, nodding. He has to shield his full mouth with his hand as he says, “A promising one. He’s an okay guy.”

Swayed by love of Shiro alone, Keith tries to read it over but gets caught up on the very first line, at the name. “Lance?” He studies a spot on the living room rug while he tries to place it. “Where do I know that name from?”

“You’ve met him before. A few times, actually.”

Keith flops his hands into his lap, the paper application fluttering. The memory returns in full force: a lanky guy with a loud voice and a personality that seems to be ninety-percent bad pickup lines. When Keith had first started going to the gym with Shiro, Lance made a show of trying to one-up him at every exercise. It had ended pitifully on the leg presses, with Lance’s twiggy legs bent like chicken wings while Shiro lifted the weights to free him.

“Seriously, Shiro? _Him_?” he asks, unbelieving. Maybe it’s Shiro’s screwy idea of a joke. “The guy who leaves fingerprints all over my clean pastry case? The guy who made fun of _my_ hair when he’s walking around with _those_ bangs? The one who poured his latte all over his own face when Allura walked in?”

“He’s… excitable,” Shiro says, shrugging his shoulders. “A little bit of a disaster, I’ll give you that. But he’s not bad once you get to know him. He’s personable and charming and he’s _great_ at dealing with people. The whole reason I started working out next to him at the gym was because he intercepted everyone else who tried to talk to me.”

“So he’s your extroverted buffer. Very symbiotic.” Keith crosses his arms, working his jaw side to side as he watches Shiro frantically gobble his cereal before it gets mushy. “Didn’t he smash your old phone?”

“Yes, he did accidentally knock my phone out of my hand and crush it with the rowing machine,” Shiro admits with considerable reluctance, knowing it doesn’t help his case.  “But he’s got a good heart, under the Lancey facade. I think the last few weeks have been rough, since he’s in between jobs. And he’s Hunk’s friend, too, if that helps.”

It does. Keith clicks his teeth together as he thinks it over— Shiro and Hunk both vouching for Lance makes him consider it, as much as the man might personally get under his skin. Time is a factor, too, considering that they’ll be out of the country for three weeks in just a few short months. He’d really like to lock someone down and make sure they’re acclimated to the job sooner rather than later.

“It’s up to you, Keith,” Shiro reminds him. He slurps the pastel blue milk from his cereal bowl and adds, “I mean, you’re the one who’ll be working alongside whoever we hire. I know Allura’s got a cousin who might be interested, too, if you’re having a hard time with the general public.”

“Lance’ll do, probably,” Keith decides as he skims the application and sees Lance has half a dozen service industry jobs under his belt. There’s the risk that he might be flaky, judging by how brief each stint is, but Keith’s hoping that the chance to work alongside Shiro and Hunk will counter that.

It does and it doesn’t.

The first week is frustrating, and Keith can _feel_ his personality clashing with Lance’s, like sharp edges dragging over coarse sandpaper. While quick to listen to Shiro’s slightest whim and at least reasonably helpful where Hunk is concerned, Lance seems to view Keith as more of a competitor than an employer. It’s mostly an annoyance, but a few little barbs and quips strike deep, if mostly unintentionally.

Still, Keith can’t deny that Lance holds some strange appeal for the populace at large, and teenage girls in particular seem to flock to the counter at the sight of him. Their tip jar has never been so well fed, and Keith’s never been so perplexed; whatever it is about Lance that so many find so charming, it’s lost on him. Still, he’s grateful to have someone else to split the onslaught of social interaction with— more so when Lance has no issues taking on the bulk of customer interaction to let Keith step back and simply fill orders.

But he’s better company when his mouth is shut.

“So, Hunk’s sort of filled me in, but I’m still kind of confused,” Lance says that afternoon, elbows leaning on the counter as they wait out a brief lull. He could be helping Keith refill the napkin dispenser or wipe down the print-smudged glass of the pastry case, but his energy is apparently better spent prying. “Are you Shiro’s boyfriend, or his sugar daddy?”

Keith straightens up and considers Lance’s smug-lipped, smartass grin— that look of satisfaction at thinking he’s gotten in a jab that’ll leave Keith embarrassed or flustered. He matches it with his own impassive look, knowing the lack of reaction goads Lance right back.

“Yes.”

That’s enough. Keith listens to Lance sputter as he heads for the kitchen, determined to keep it together until he’s out of sight.

“You can’t just _say that_ and then walk out of the room!” Lance complains, words muffled as the red kitchen door swings shut behind Keith.

“How’s it going, baby?” Shiro greets, pausing in rolling out a layer of shortbread with a heavy wooden pin. His black apron is smattered with white flour, which also clings to spots along his nose and jaw; it wraps both of his arms up to his elbows, and he kisses Keith carefully to avoid transferring any of the mess.

“Fine,” Keith answers, smiling as Shiro playfully pecks his nose, too.

“Is Lance being a butt again?” Hunk asks from the sink, where he’s washing his hands all the way up to his elbows. “He’s not usually so… y’know. Do you want me to go knock him down a peg for you?”

“Nah. I’m figuring out how to shut him up.”

Shiro snorts at that and goes back to shaping the shortbread. He hashes out details for a special order with Hunk, and their conversation slowly erodes from work-talk into the pair of them laughing at some inside joke that Keith has a feeling only the culinarily-inclined would understand.

“I’m hungry,” Keith whispers when there’s a break in the bakers’ back and forth, raking his nails up and down Shiro’s back in a rhythm that matches the strokes of his rolling pin.

“I think there are still a few of Hunk’s curry rolls left. And some chess pie. Oh, and I made cheddar biscuits,” Shiro rattles off. “Or do you mean hungry like you want me to take you somewhere for an early dinner?”

“The second one,” Keith says as he wraps himself around Shiro, pressing his face between his shoulder blades and drawing in the scent of fresh detergent and vanilla cookies. Shiro keeps working, and there’s something hypnotic about the flex of his back as he rolls and shapes the dough, all that muscle and power right where Keith can feel it. “It’s tapering off out there.”

Shiro grunts as he makes one last pass with the rolling pin. “Do you think you can finish these up, Hunk?”

“No problem, Shiro. Hey, is it okay if I use your extra dough for a crust? I want to make something special for tomorrow and here’s this flavor profile I really want to tinker with...”

“Go wild, Hunk,” he answers as he tugs off his apron and starts washing up. “Consider it practice for when you’ve got the run of the place.”

The go-ahead makes Hunk beam as he bustles around the kitchen, brow set with new determination. He spends a few minutes filling Keith in on his current ambition— figuring out a way to marry sweet potato and cheesecake _just right —_ and Keith tries his best to pay his full attention despite Shiro throwing a clean button-down over his shirt and deftly rolling up the sleeves to his elbows in the background.

Shiro is still a little flour-flecked as they leave, but there’s no helping it. As they walk the streets hand-in-hand, he chatters excitedly about something new he and Hunk are collaborating on. It’s guava and strawberry, and though they’re confident in the filling itself, it sounds like they’re undecided on crust options— hand pie, tarte, or _deconstructed_. Whatever that means. Keith is content to listen, offering the occasional question to keep Shiro talking, until they reach the restaurant.

While they sip their drinks and wait on mozzarella sticks, jalapeno poppers, and a tower of spicy wings, Shiro asks, “So, how’s the front really been? With Lance.”

Keith takes a long draw from his beer to have time to consider it. It’s painfully clear how badly Shiro wants all of them to get along.

“Faster,” Keith finally says as he licks the foam from his upper lip. “He’s better at handling the customers. Chatty and stuff. It’s been nice, not having to sit on the register all day, but I’m a little worried about his mental math...”

Shiro smiles in between bites of a freshly delivered mozzarella stick, but it’s not quite pleased. “I meant how are things personally? Teamwork and all that. I can talk to him, Keith.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine. I mean, he’s kind of an ass at times,” Keith shrugs, “but I’ve worked with enough unruly kids to know how to deal with that behavior. It’ll get better, I think, once he stops seeing me as an unspoken challenge.”

This time, Shiro’s smile is soft. He props his chin in his hand as he slurps through the curly straw in his unnaturally neon pink daiquiri. “Thanks for giving him a chance, Keith. I promise he’ll grow on you.”

Keith rolls his eyes and leans in to take Shiro’s straw when he’s finished. He tries a sip of the strawberry drink and immediately decides he likes his stout better— there’s a note in the fruity drink he doesn’t like and the sugar is mouth-puckering. “I’m tasting…”

“Mountain Dew? Yep,” Shiro laughs as Keith sticks his tongue out. “They go heavy on the rum here, too. Oh, I figured I’d mention that Hunk invited us over to play Monsters and Mana sometime, as like a… team bonding thing. You and me, Lance, Hunk, Allura, Coran, Pidge. Everyone. Except Matt, because he’s already tied up in Olia’s campaign. But we don’t need him,” Shiro says with a wave of his hand.

“Yeah?” Keith asks, grinning at Shiro’s flippant remark and bright cheeks. The man’s definitely a little buzzed. Keith moves his hands and thanks the waiter as their wings are dropped off, piling his plate high with wings and jalapenos as Shiro continues to talk up the proposed game night.

“Yeah! I think it’d be good for us! Hunk said we could bring Nova over, too. Have some pizza and snacks.” He leans in, almost conspiratorial, and Keith wonders just how much rum was in the daiquiri Shiro just had. “And I’d do _anything_ for you to do art of my human paladin, Jiro.”

“ _Anything_ , huh?” Keith laughs as he licks his thumb clean. That’s intriguing. “What’s he look like?”

“Like me,” Shiro shrugs, “but in armor.”

So it’s a win-win for Keith. A free pass for _anything_ from Shiro — a boon the likes of which Keith doesn’t quite know what to do with yet— and the opportunity to bring his boyfriend’s noble and handsome paladin persona to life. He’d be a fool to say no.

“Okay. I’ll draw ‘Jiro’ for you,” he agrees as he strips the meat from a wing and slurps it down. He then raises two hot sauce-covered fingers. “On two conditions. I want a raincheck on that _anything_ until I decide how to use it, and I get full creative license in designing your paladin armor.”

Grinning crookedly and apparently satisfied with that trade, Shiro bangs the table with his palm. “Done!”

 

* * *

 

Their flight leaves early on a Friday, so they make most of their goodbyes the day before.

When they drop by, Allura is in the middle of prepping a number of grand and extravagant cakes for Lotor’s father’s retirement party, the frantic pace of her work leaving her with pink icing smeared over her cheeks and cocoa coloring the messy bun of her hair. She’s too busy to do much more than give each of them a hug and offer her wishes for a safe trip, but her heartfelt warmth makes the moment rich.

Keith still feels a smidge of guilt for turning down Lotor’s invitation to the party, despite its ill-timing and his general dislike of formal events, anyway— much less ones where the honored guest is bitterly being forced into retirement. Sincline’s new CEO had taken the refusal with grace, but had ended the call by joking that Keith still owed him for luring away one of their most promising engineering prospects.

At their bakery, Hunk gives each of them a carefully boxed up breakfast and assorted snacks for their carry-ons, very much in mother hen mode as he reminds them to stay hydrated on the flight and frequently stretch their legs. Hunk’s chest swells with pride when Shiro’s hands settle on his shoulders, and he goes teary-eyed when the older baker gives him a few words of encouragement, saying something about leaving the heart of the business in Hunk’s capable hands.

Keith and Lance watch, united in uncomfortable awkwardness, as the dam breaks under Shiro’s praise and Hunk ends up enveloping his boss in a weepy hug.

With a grunt, Keith says, “Don’t expect any of that from me.”

They’ve come a long way, but not _that_ far.

“Obviously not,” Lance snorts, crossing his arms in imitation of Keith. He frowns as the scene between Hunk and Shiro drags on— mostly from Hunk’s end— and strums his fingers idly against his bicep. “It will, uh, be weird without you around, though. I’ll miss having you here to shut down asshole customers.”

Keith can’t help but smile, as it really is the sole thing Lance seems to truly appreciate him for. Hell, when they’d finally started to bond, it wasn’t through Monsters and Mana— it was when some giant dick waiting in line made the unfortunate mistake of mocking Shiro’s scars and prosthetic arm within earshot of them both.

“Well, Allura will be around,” he says, pointedly ignoring the way Lance’s face lights up at the mere mention of her name, “and she’s not going to let anyone give you any shit. And if she’s not here, then you have my permission to call yourself the manager and tell rude customers to fuck off.”

Shiro overhears that part, wilting as he sees the need to avert some future disaster. He looks directly at Lance. “Please don’t say fuck to the customers.”

“Unless they _really_ deserve it,” Keith tacks on, giving a pointed look from Shiro to the pinboard of bad customers hidden behind the counter.

The most recent addition was a passerby who’d stormed in to aggressively complain about a rude woman with a dog at one of the tables in their outdoor seating area. Excessive and high-decibel use of expletives hadn’t helped his case, and neither did the fact that the woman in question happened to be Keith’s mother, who simply had no qualms about rejecting unwanted advances while trying to enjoy an afternoon with Nova.

Keith had never seen Shiro _furious_ before, every considerable inch of him drawn into intimidating form, a borderline snarl tugging at the edges of his mouth as he cowed the man out of the shop and clear of their stretch of sidewalk. It was a far cry from the mild-mannered Shiro he was used to seeing — the one standing before them now, fond but tired, his shirt unwittingly smudged with yellow icing from hugging Hunk.

“Okay,” Shiro says, hands held aloft as he gives in and nods in agreement with Keith. He smiles indulgently at Lance and Hunk and adds, with a great deal of hope and trust, “Just use your best judgment.”

It’s the best they can ask for, and Keith is almost morbidly curious to see the outcome. Lance has shown some remarkable moments of insight and maturity over the last couple of months… but he’s also the one who arranged the pastries in the display case into unmistakably phallic shapes and left Keith to quell the shaken sensibilities of little old church ladies, so maybe it all cancels out.

They’re mostly banking on Hunk holding the reins, if Keith’s honest. That and Allura popping in to make sure the place hasn’t burned down.

He and Shiro end the day with dinner at his family’s place, and the table overflows with people who turn up to see them off. If it’s a little overwhelming for Keith, then he worries it must be doubly so for Shiro— but maybe his boyfriend has grown used to being swarmed with doting relations, because he’s all genuine smiles as he eats Krolia’s homemade dinner and endures good-natured teasing.

Afterward, they bring a bowl of food to Nova, currently confined in Krolia’s room while guests are over. With a springy leap, all ninety pounds of her launches at Shiro with enough force that he’s nearly sent backward, but for Keith bracing him from behind. She whines, clever enough to tell she’s not coming with as they leave, and it goes straight to Keith’s heart.

After several minutes of saying goodbye, they ply her with treats and then slip out. They stop to thank Thace, Regris, and a few other frequent houseguests for signing off on Nova’s visiting them for the next three weeks, despite the allergen hell she’ll cause.

“We’ll take good care of her,” Krolia assures him as she hugs Keith goodnight on the front porch, pointedly turning his face away from the sad puppy eyes boring into him from the nearby bedroom window. “I want you to focus on enjoying your time with Shiro and making a good impression on his family.”

“Yeah. No pressure,” Keith says as his mom cradles him close, her arms folded around him.

“They’ll love you just as much as we love him,” she assures him. Quiet and warning, she adds, “They’d _better_.”

“Mom.”

“Kolivan and I will be by tomorrow morning to take you to the airport. Be ready right at five or your uncle will get into a mood,” she says, laughing softly as Keith makes a face, knowing exactly what she means. “He’s _very_ impressed with the itinerary Shiro put together and he intends to follow it to the letter.”

“That figures.”

Keith’s not surprised in the slightest. Shiro had, with incredibly attention to detail, plotted out every leg of their trip in a spreadsheet that spans a dozen pages. While watching his boyfriend dutifully map out each day of their stay, Keith had realized that this was one area in which they were fundamentally and vastly different.

But he figures he has no room to complain about Shiro’s zealous approach to vacation planning. Every single worry or sudden realization Keith’s had in the months leading up to their trip— his passport, their cell plan, lodging while they’re in Tokyo, their train tickets, his meds— has already been taken care of by the time he brings it up. Hell, Shiro accounts for things that would never even cross Keith’s mind. He can parrot back TSA policy in the middle of perfecting a tower of croquembouche, too, and he has their flight number and all relevant information memorized. The man knows his shit.

He even bought Keith rolling hardside luggage that actually looks _nice_ , unlike the cheap two-wheeled fabric suitcase he’s been using since high school. They have a matching set, and Keith never thought he’d be excited about anything _matching_ in his entire life, but here he is.

The drive home is a blur of nighttime and city lights, and by this time tomorrow, they’ll be nearing the end of a twelve-hour flight. When Keith falls into bed, dead-tired from a day of tying up loose ends and making goodbye visits, Shiro rolls across the king-sized mattress to kiss him goodnight.

“Sleep,” he tells Keith as he affectionately musses up his shaggy hair. “I’ll pack everything.”

Keith goes to push himself up, though he wants nothing more than to toe off his sneakers and plant his face directly into the pillow. “No, Shiro, you don’t have to—”

“I’m more efficient,” Shiro whispers in his ear as he tenderly presses Keith back down into the bed. It’s gentle, the way he says it, but Keith can suss out an assertive note that brooks no argument.

“Okay,” Keith relents as Shiro tucks him in and makes sure the alarm is set. He’s happy to leave Shiro to his packing cube system and checklists, knowing it’ll probably be less stressful for both of them in the end. “But come to bed soon.”

He takes Shiro’s hand and gives it a squeeze, wrapping his fingers tight around the considerable width of his palm; it’s answered by Shiro lifting Keith’s hand to his lips to dust his knuckles with a featherlight kiss. Aluminum fingers brush over Keith’s forehead, combing back the long pieces of hair that have a tendency to fall in his face, and Shiro lovingly pats his cheek before inelegantly scooting his way to the edge of the bed.

Keith drifts away in bits and pieces, struggling to keep his eyes open and on the love of his life— glasses perched on his nose as he readies their matching suitcases and carry-on bags, mouth moving the barest bit as he checks his way down a list of everything they could possibly need and much more they probably won’t.

It’s Shiro’s hallmark precision that has them standing out on the curb promptly at five a.m. when his mom and Kolivan pull up, Keith’s arms wrapped tight around a lightly shivering Shiro. According to his schedule, they’ll arrive at the airport with almost five hours to spare; it’s excessive, but the extra padding of time puts Shiro at ease and that alone makes the early start bearable for Keith.

Kolivan enthusiastically approves of Shiro’s abundance of caution, and the pair of them spend the entire ride across town talking about the worst flight delays they’ve experienced and the importance of planning ahead. Keith and his mother share a look, resigned to it.

“Dad was never like this, was he?” Keith mutters to her, cheek pressed to the back of her seat as he stares at his uncle and Shiro animatedly commiserating.

His mom’s laugh makes him grin. “ _No_ ,” she says, emphatic. “But that’s probably for the best. When I met your father, we… oh, we didn’t even know where we were going when we took off together. Texas, I think, but we never quite made it there. Obviously.”

Keith’s smile sticks around, but the thought of his dad softens it. He can feel the weight of his father’s ring in the interior pocket of his jacket, sitting just above his heart, safe beside his passport. It’s warm and reassuring and in the dimness of the backseat, he finds Shiro’s hand and holds it.

After navigating the airport traffic and turns, Krolia pulls them up to the drop-off curb and pops the back hatch. While Kolivan gets their luggage, she takes a deep breath and draws them both in for a strong-armed hug that has Shiro’s metal elbow digging into Keith’s side.

“Text us,” his mother says as she presses a kiss to Shiro’s cheek, and then Keith’s after, “and take lots of pictures. I want a selfie a day, alright? And I need you both to promise you’ll have fun.”

Keith mumbles an agreement and can hear Shiro doing the same. His mom lets them both loose, but she isn’t quite done.

“Shiro,” Krolia says, smiling as Shiro immediately straightens up with military posture. She clasps his shoulder and looks him dead in the eye. “Take care of my boy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, only slightly awkward as he is immediately drawn in for a back-thumping hug from Kolivan afterward.

His uncle comes for Keith next, nearly sweeping him off the ground as he holds him close. “Look after Shiro,” Kolivan whispers to him.

“I will. We’ve got each other’s backs.”

“His itinerary is _very_ detailed,” Kolivan remarks, probably for the dozenth time, like it’s the highest praise possible to bestow. “With plenty of contingency plans. You two are going to have a wonderful and highly structured vacation.”

They say their last goodbyes, and Keith waits until they’re out of earshot of the car to tease Shiro about how thoroughly his trip planning won over Kolivan. “As if he didn’t already think you’re perfect,” Keith snorts.

Shiro’s face is still beet red as they wheel their luggage to the check-in. “Doesn’t everyone do research before they go on vacation?” he murmurs as they head toward the line for security, looking sheepish.

“Yours is in fifteen-minute increments, though. And color-coded. And _so_ detailed. Not that I don’t appreciate how much thought you put into it,” he adds, threading his fingers through Shiro’s while they slowly inch forward. “I’m excited for what you have planned for us.”

Shiro shrugs. “I just like feeling prepared, you know. Organized. But we can go off-schedule, if you want. I allotted— uh, nevermind.”

Keith can’t help but laugh. “Did you seriously work us going off-schedule _into_ the schedule?”

“No,” Shiro insists, immediately clamming up afterward.

Keith is conscious of his father’s ring as they approach the metal detectors, and probably more furtive about it than he needs to be. He waits until Shiro is taking off his sneakers to sneak it into his plastic tray beside his phone and other bits and pieces, and then slips it back into his pocket before Shiro’s even made it through the scanner and the cursory examination of his prosthetic.

His boyfriend is none the wiser as they gather their things and slip their shoes back on, though he notices Keith’s small, secretive smile and responds with one of his own.

They eat Hunk’s breakfast while they burn time— of which they have _hours —_ until they need to be at the gate. Shiro checks his phone every ten minutes, monitoring the time and their flight status, positively radiating nervous energy. It’s a little bit of lingering fear from his accident, Shiro admits, but he insists commercial flights are just another beast entirely. The primary anxiety at play is social— not hearing the boarding call or losing his seat, getting to the front and finding out he’s at the wrong gate or somehow missed the flight— and he claims he’ll be fine once they’re actually in the air.

Keith’s never been in a commercial airplane, aside from the flight out of Arizona after his dad died. He was too young at the time to remember most of it now— aside from how kind the flight attendants were when he was frightened during take-off— and as such, he’s not really sure what to expect. At the moment, he only feels a slight buzz of nerves from proximity to Shiro’s pent-up worry.

They wander through a few gift shops and buy snacks for the flight before meandering to the gate and curling up together on a few seats near an outlet. It’s by the window, too, and as they watch the planes take off against a dawn-streaked sky, he listens as Shiro recounts bits and pieces of his own short career in flight.

When it finally comes time to board, they’re among the first in line and the experience has Shiro giddy. Every time Keith catches his eye, the other man grins and mouths, _first-class_. When they find their seats — a row of two all to themselves, plush and spacious compared to the ones Keith can see further down the plane— Keith opts for the one by the window. Shiro’s excited for him to see the same sights he loved when he flew: the shrinking patches of city blocks and cultivated land, the billowy fields of clouds, the distant curve of the horizon. It’s not the same view when confined to a tiny window, Shiro tells him with a hint of regret, but it’s the best they can do for now.

Keith’s grin grows as Shiro gets them settled in. While other passengers file past, he’s methodically pulling item after item from his small carry-on: a comfy throw blanket, a plush neck rest, his own pair of comfy slippers, a tablet loaded with documentaries and movies for them to watch, and a bag of sour worms to snack on.

“You’re ready for the long haul, huh?” Keith asks, trying not to laugh as Shiro preemptively slips on his sleeping mask, the black satin eyecover stretched across his forehead sending his white hair jutting up in multiple directions.

“Not my first rodeo,” Shiro murmurs as he settles into the roomy seat, humming happily. His legs sway back and forth, and he’s lazy as he toes off his sneakers and puts on the slippers instead. “But this _is_ the first time I’ve ever been able to stretch my legs like this. The width is nice, too. Usually my shoulders end up bumping whoever’s stuck next to me.”

“Yeah,” Keith says dryly, eyeing his boyfriend. Even in his casual and comfy outfit of sweatpants and a hoodie, he’s unmistakably handsome and well-cut, and Keith has a hard time believing anyone would be sorely disappointed about brushing biceps with a literal angel. “I bet sitting next to you was a real pain.”

Shiro gives him a quiet, sarcastic laugh. He buckles himself in first, and then checks Keith’s seatbelt to make sure it’s secure. “Do you want your neck pillow now, or…?”

“I can wait,”  Keith shrugs. He toys with the cheap, free one that was left waiting in his seat instead. There’s a little thrum in his stomach as the engines come to life somewhere behind them and the plane lurches forward; it grows into genuine discomfort as they start to taxi.

It’s not the same as racing or hang gliding or cliff jumping, where Keith’s flying solo. It’s not like the massive leaps and plunges he could pull off on the Sincline hoverbike he test drove, with his own two hands on the wheel. It’s bumpy and jostling as they slowly gain speed on the runway, and there’s something new and terrifying about knowing Shiro’s life and his own are in someone else’s control entirely.

Two large hands clasp one of his own, and Shiro applies just enough pressure to draw Keith from his thoughts. “It’s really okay, Keith. Statistically, we’re super safe,” he murmurs close by Keith’s ear, nuzzling close as Keith swallows down a sound of discomfort. “I mean, I’ve already been in one plane accident. What’re the chances of two?”

“Not super helpful,” Keith says.

“Here, you can squeeze my prosthetic as hard as you want, if that helps,” Shiro says. “And once we get through take off, you’ll be fine.”

The lift-off is rough— a voice over speakers says something about the wind, half-garbled, tuned out once Keith knows it’s of no real help or comfort— and he’s grateful for Shiro’s whispered reassurances and steady presence. By the time they hit altitude and he uncurls his hand from Shiro’s, there are imprints from the seams of the metal plates dug bright red into his palm.

But it _is_ better after that. Shiro leans over his shoulder as they look out the window, watching the slow crawl of the land below as even the mountains fall away under their wings. It gets too bright once they’re above the clouds, with sunlight reflecting on every puffy white surface, and Keith finally has to pull down the blind.

They settle in to watch a movie, interrupted only by the snack cart and a meal that Keith voraciously wolfs down. And once the cabin lights turn low, Shiro makes sure Keith’s okay if he takes a nap.

“I’ll be a zombie, otherwise,” he says, already yawning, and Keith wonders how late he stayed up to get everything packed. “You sure you’re not tired?”

“Not yet,” Keith says. He’s wired, actually, still working out the adrenaline that flooded his system earlier. “I’m gonna watch some videos. You get some shuteye.”

He doesn’t have to tell Shiro twice. The older man pops in his earbuds and pulls down his mask, only pausing in getting situated under his blanket to make sure Keith knows to get him a snack, too, the next time the cart comes around. And then he’s happily unconscious, the world around him fully blacked-out, and Keith has a long internal debate about whether or not he should snap a picture of Shiro drooling onto his neck pillow.

He does, just for his own personal use. He sets it as the tablet’s wallpaper for Shiro to find later.

For a while, Keith reviews their meticulously detailed schedule while sipping a beer from the drink cart. He knows Shiro’s excited about showing him the sights and introducing him to his grandfather and the few other living relatives he has; Keith’s more concerned about not embarrassing himself in front of the Shirogane family and making sure he doesn’t fuck up proposing. _If_ he proposes. If there’s a moment that strikes just right. If he doesn’t lose his nerve.

When Keith looks over at Shiro, though, any doubt about that melts away. Shiro is some kind of sleeping beauty, conked out in his first-class seat and steadily teetering over the armrest and into Keith’s space, his drying lips parted just enough for a faint wheeze to pass through them— and Keith knows in his heart that there’s no way he can make it another three weeks without asking this man to marry him. There’s no future ahead in which he’s not committing himself to Shiro in every way he knows how, using every means at his disposal to bind them together.

There are hours to go before they land, and the dimness of the cabin eventually gets to Keith. A nap might be nice, actually, if he’s nestled against Shiro’s shoulder. He grabs the corner of the blanket and pulls it over himself, up to the dip at the base of his throat, and snuggles against the solid and enticing warmth of the man beside him.

Under the cover, Keith finds Shiro’s forearm and trails his fingers down, over his wrist, until he can press their palms together. Their shared heat is amplified where they touch, and as he starts to drift off to the faint sound of music coming from Shiro’s earbuds, Keith lazily winds his fingers through Shiro’s and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

Even in his sleep, Shiro returns it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'm not a big talker but you can find me on Tumblr [@neyasochi](https://neyasochi.tumblr.com) and twitter [@neyasochi](https://twitter.com/neyasochi)!
> 
> [some additional info/headcanons for this AU on my tumblr](http://neyasochi.tumblr.com/post/175935093913/spun-like-sugar-extra-sweets)!


	3. and everything nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finally pops the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has an awful lot about weddings coming from someone who knows nothing about weddings ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> thank you so much [zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/works) for betaing this chapter for me!

Their stay in Tokyo is a whirlwind of autumn colors and shopping and selfies as they nestle together in coffee shops and restaurants. Shiro’s schedule is both thorough and flexible enough to overcome a late typhoon that arrives just as they do, new construction, and an afternoon in which Keith refused to walk away from a UFO machine until he won a stuffed rabbit plush for Shiro.

Their days are full without being overwhelming, leaving Keith pleasantly exhausted by the time they fall into bed together. They hike through forests gone golden and red in the face of winter; they go boating along the shore, enjoying a fancy dinner on the deck as they view the skyline from the sea; they take nighttime walks through dazzling, neon-lit neighborhoods and visit whatever bar catches Keith’s eye. He enjoys every minute of every excursion Shiro planned for them, but that almost goes without saying— Keith is pretty sure he could spend an hour sorting garbage in a landfill with Shiro and cherish the memory.

Their last day in the city is spent at Disneysea, under grey skies and blustery winds that carry the first hints of winter’s bite. With his arm looped through Shiro’s, Keith is happy to be led to the magic carpet ride, the spinning teacups in the Mermaid Lagoon, the Tower of Terror.

The chilly sea breeze leaves Shiro pink-cheeked and red-nosed; combined with the Mickey Mouse ears on the headband he’s wearing, it’s an adorable combo. The ears are round and overlarge where they peek up behind two-toned hair gone whipped and wild from the salt air. Keith snaps yet another picture of his boyfriend as they sit in the comfort of a tiny cafe styled like something out of early twentieth-century New England, sipping coffee from Duffy-branded cups as they split a cutesy dessert.

Keith changes the lockscreen on his phone for maybe the twentieth time today, replacing a shot of Shiro looking out over the water on their earlier gondola ride with this moment of him quietly sipping coffee, unspeakably handsome in his cashmere turtleneck and mouse ear headband.

“What’s next?” Shiro asks as he sets his cup back down and licks his lips, chapped despite repeated applications of balm from their shared tube.

“I got to eat all the popcorn flavors and go on the Tower of Terror,” Keith shrugs, turning his hands up. “I am content.”

As he flicks through his twitter for updates, Keith sees a number of pictures Shiro’s shared of _him_ : waiting in line for the magic carpet ride with his arms crossed; posing next to the various popcorn carts they’d visited, his own pair of Mickey ears slightly askew stop his thick hair; smiling broadly with his arm slung around Shiro’s shoulders as they took a selfie in the Mermaid Lagoon.

“I am, too,” Shiro sighs before donning a smile so soft and cute that Keith has to grip the edge of the table to keep from leaning over to kiss him squarely in the middle of the cafe. “I just want to hit the gift shop again on our way out. I already have an idea of what souvenirs to get everyone, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Sure thing,” Keith agrees, stretching in his chair to pop his back. He’d seen a few things he wanted to get for his uncles and cousins, too. “We should probably get back to the harbor if we want to see the fireworks too, right?”

“And the volcano,” Shiro adds as he stands and pushes his chair in. He mimes an explosion with his hands, fingers fluttering dramatically. “It’s pretty awesome. Or… it was when I was a kid, at least,” he amends, almost sheepish.

Keith has a hard time imagining anything with pyrotechnics aging poorly. They walk hand-in-hand back to the broad, cobbled street along the little harbor that’s reminiscent of the Mediterranean. The leather of his gloves slips against the simple fleece Shiro prefers, but he holds fast. The dense crowds make him exceedingly nervous of ever letting Shiro go.

They enjoy the evening show a ways back from the rest of crowd, set apart from others even in the bustle of the park’s main thoroughfare. Keith’s always loved fireworks, and this is no different— the pops of fiery color shine even brighter against the cloud cover, the thin grey of their smoke trails catching the flashes of light from each new burst of fireworks.

The belching fire of Mount Prometheus isn’t half bad, either. Keith can see why it impressed a younger Shiro when his grandfather brought him to the park as a treat. He imagines that a younger version of himself would’ve been just as thrilled to see a volcano spouting flames into the night sky, the fire dancing where it’s reflected in dark water.

Keith leans into Shiro, resting a cheek against his shoulder. Their gloved hands remain tightly clasped. “Still awesome?” he asks, giving Shiro’s palm a little squeeze.

Shiro grins crookedly as the volcano shoots another gout of flame, eyes alight. “Yeah. Just like I remembered.”

The volcano and the fireworks continue to erupt, but it’s Shiro that Keith can’t tear his eyes away from. He doesn’t want to miss the play of color across his cheeks, his lips, the white of his hair. He’s in love with that look of contentment and wonder. There’s nothing else in the world— not even in the sky above them, alive with sparkling, shimmering color— that can hold a candle to the man standing beside him, enraptured by it all.

The ring sitting in the buttoned breast-pocket of Keith’s jacket suddenly feels like a hundred-pound weight leaning against his chest, impossible to ignore for another moment. The pounding thud of his heart rattles his ribs and jolts the hammered silver where it lay— or so it feels, anyway.

His hold on Shiro’s hand never wavers, even as he turns and slowly drops to a knee, still fumbling to fish the ring from his pocket. Shiro is just as lovely from this angle, with that star-printed scarf tucked under his chin and his hair swept up around his rounded mouse ears by the wind.

“Shiro?” he asks, barely audible over the pops of the fireworks and the sounds of the nearby crowd.

“Mhm?”

“Shiro…” Keith’s thumb moves across the back of Shiro’s fleece-wrapped hand, its stroke patiently imploring. As the next round of smattered explosions and brilliant bursts of color draws awed sighs from the crowd, Shiro turns aside.

It takes a moment of searching before his gaze drops to find Keith at waist height. There’s the bright sliver of a smile for the briefest millisecond and then it’s gone as Shiro’s jaw slackens and his lips part. Grey eyes gone dark under the dim moonlight wait on him, wide and expectant.

“Keith?”

“Shiro,” Keith repeats back in response, fighting to keep his smile halfway restrained.

“ _Keith_.” Shiro sighs it, already overwhelmed. His head tilts to one side and his lips press tight in some attempt to hold back whatever’s threatening to spill out; his gloved fingers flex and curl in Keith’s loose grip, too expectant to remain still.

Keith hadn’t planned this far ahead— hadn’t planned any of this. Instinct had brought him to his knees before the man he loves more than anything else in the world, his heartstrings pulling the rest of his body along like a marionette. His tongue trips over unprepared words, but after a couple of false starts, Keith manages.

“I knew I was going to ask you to marry me before we got back home,” he says, steadfast despite the tremble that’s setting in. Nerves, buzzing excited and terrified through his gut. “I just didn’t know when or where. I, uh… I hope now is okay?”

Shiro nods, quick and emphatic. His eyes are shining, but it might just be from the sting of the cool November winds blowing in across the sea.

“Good,” Keith says, nodding back. His throat closes up, choked with a knot of emotion he can’t swallow down, and it’s only after a few drawn moments of speechlessness that he remembers he still has to _ask_. “Shiro, please— would you marry me?”

“Of course, Keith,” Shiro murmurs, breathy and urgent as he draws Keith up and into his arms. “Yes! _Please_ marry me.”

Giddiness catches between them as he gently tugs at the fingers of Shiro’s glove; too eager to wait, Shiro starts peeling it off at the wrist. As soon as his hand is free, Keith slides the ring onto his finger. The sight of that band of hammered silver against Shiro’s skin is unspeakably satisfying— right where it belongs, a perfect fit, a mark left by Keith for all the world to see.

He lifts Shiro’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of his finger, the metal searingly cool under his lips. A metal arm crooks around him and tugs him in close, and Shiro— bearing a broad smile, a bright red blush, and eyelashes wet with unshed tears— leans down to kiss him.

The cold’s left Shiro’s lips a little rough, but Keith’s have fared no better. It’s still perfect, as is every single kiss he shares with Shiro. It soothes the livewire spark of Keith’s nerves and quenches the smoldering want he’s carried since their last kiss some hours ago, stolen quick as they soared high on the magic carpet ride together. His free hand curls around Shiro’s nape to hold him close; he can feel the firm squeeze of metal along his hip, doing the same.

For a few blissful moments, there’s nothing but the sweetness between them. And then, distantly, Keith registers the resounding pops and crackles of the firework show. Fainter than that, he catches the lighter notes of smattered applause.

They both freeze as a few strangers snap photos of them, and as they part Keith inwardly chastises himself for unthinkingly making a public proposal.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to have this be a big embarrassing thing,” he apologizes softly. But Shiro, busy spreading his fingers and twisting his hand to marvel at his engagement ring, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“It’s not,” Shiro almost laughs. “As if I could be embarrassed by the man I love getting down on one knee for me.” His tone turns teasing. “Now, those ears, on the other hand…”

Brow furrowed, Keith reaches up blindly above his own head until he feels the padded curve of enormous mouse ears.

“Fuck. Forgot I had these on,” he mutters, fingers moving to slip the headband off. His face— no doubt already burning bright from a combination of sweaty nerves and his intense blush— somehow kicks up another few degrees.

Shiro stops him short with his ungloved hand, his bare fingers chilled through as they brush over a sliver of exposed skin on Keith’s wrist.

“No, I like them,” Shiro says, fond as he strokes along one of the rounded mouse ears before dropping his hand to cup along Keith’s jaw, thumb gently brushing against the shell of the real thing. “And I love you.”

Shiro convinces him to leave the ears on for the first round of post-engagement selfies— red-faced and still stupidly giggly from the excitement of it, Shiro showing off the ring in almost every shot. A few helpful passersby offer to take slightly more formal pictures of them posed by the darkened bay, the moon peeking through the clouds just to glimmer on the water behind them.

“Babe, you’re freezing,” Keith says after the last shots are done and Shiro still refuses to slip his glove back on, instead choosing to stare down at the ring on his hand. He unzips his jacket a few inches and guides Shiro’s hand inside until it’s tucked under the cozy cotton blend and primed to leach the abundance of warmth he naturally radiates.

“We could head into the gift shop,” Shiro suggests. He seems content to linger with his hand in Keith’s jacket for a few minutes, though, until Keith determines his fingers are no longer icicles and tugs the fleece glove over Shiro’s hand himself.

Before the park closes for the night, they manage to buy six enormous bagfuls of souvenirs and Disneysea merchandise. Laden with their haul, holding hands is tricky, but they manage. And even hidden under colorful fleece, out of sight but not out of mind, his ring remains wrapped snugly around Shiro’s finger.

* * *

Keith opens his eyes and finds Shiro already awake, head cushioned on an overstuffed pillow, white hair flopped messily across his forehead. His throat and chest are marked with a mess of lovebites and gentle bruises, and he smiles at Keith like he’s the spring after a winter of hopelessly enraptured waiting.

“Good morning, husband-to-be.”

Keith just grins and turns his head, burying his smile into his own pillow. He groans low into the down stuffing as he stretches out his legs, feeling the tiniest twinge of ache from all their walking yesterday. With a soft little grunt, he rolls onto his side and fishes under the covers for Shiro’s left hand, drawing it up to his lips. Keith presses a kiss to his ring finger, directly over the rough gleam of the silvery band wrapped around it. “Mm. My fiancé.”

Shiro makes a little _ooh_. “Like the sound of that,” he purrs, a raspy edge to his words.

He rolls over easy when Keith surges up to pin him in a ferocious kiss, morning breath and all. Keith gently closes his teeth around Shiro’s bottom lip, tongue prodding at its fullness. When he finally lets go, it’s to nose at Shiro’s cheek and murmur, “Mr. Takashi Marmora isn’t bad, either.”

Shiro grins, his mouth bruised and flushed a pretty red. “Alright, you go shower first, Mr. Keith Shirogane,” he says while patting his Keith’s butt, encouraging him to move. “Don’t wanna miss our train. I reserved our seats.”

“I know, I know,” Keith sighs as he swings a long leg over Shiro and clambers off the bed. Shiro loves his meticulously planned schedule and loves adhering to it even better, and far be it from Keith to be the wrench in his plans.

He stretches as he makes his way to the small but luxurious bathroom, pleased to hear Shiro’s low whistle of approval as he goes. It’s only while he’s waiting for the shower spray to turn hot that Keith glances in a mirror and notices the marks he’s carrying— the swollen red lines of dragging nails over his shoulders and sides, dark hickeys along his thighs, gentle bruising in the shape of large fingers on his hips.

He shaves and brushes his teeth in the shower, years of living in a crowded household having honed him into an efficient routine. He’s in and out in a tidy five minutes, unlike Shiro, who will take at least twenty minutes in the bathroom. Keith wraps his towel around his waist and heads out to get dressed, single-minded as he sifts through his luggage for a top that will securely cover every telling mark left on his skin— the absolute last thing he wants to do is meet Shiro’s family while bearing blatant hickeys.

“Keith.”

“Shower’s all yours, Shiro.”

“Keith.”

While digging through his backpack for his favorite socks, Keith stumbles upon a forgotten snack— a neat little package with a single hard-boiled egg inside, bought the night before last when Shiro had to stop in at the 7-11 for some cash.

“Do you think this egg is still good?” Keith asks as he digs the small package out and gives it a few testing sniffs. He’s eaten worse for sure, thanks to his dad’s pretty loose interpretation of the five-second rule and other culinary no-no’s, and it seems like a waste to toss food that’s otherwise good. “It’s probably fine, right? It’s been pretty cold out. Not like it sat in the sun or anything. Yeah… yeah, probably fine.”

“Keith, put the egg in the trash and turn around.”

Keith does as told, lobbing the egg toward a trash bin and then shuffling to face Shiro—

Who is on the floor in nothing but his underwear, knelt down between the foot of the bed and the TV-mounted dresser with Mickey Mouse knobs. There’s a small, dark box in his hands that draws Keith’s eyes like there’s some inexorable magnetism at work, and Shiro’s smile wavers as he looks up at him.

Metal fingers lift the wooden lid, revealing the glint of a band within. It’s couched in silky black fabric, glittering like a lonesome star, and Keith is drawn toward Shiro as if by the tug of the universe itself. He doesn’t remember taking the steps, but then he’s standing just before his kneeling fiancé, a hand in his two-toned hair, knuckles trailing down the curve of the face he knows and loves so well.

“I know this is sort of a forgone conclusion,” Shiro starts, the tip of his tongue peeking out to wet his lips, “or at least I sure _hope_ so, but… Keith— Keith. I— would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

“Yes! Yes, Shiro, of course,” he answers, dropping down to his knees before Shiro can stand, hands desperate to hold him, to cup his face, to run down his bare shoulders and arms.

Up close, the ring is even more beautiful. The band itself is near-black, though its interior gleams with polished gold that bears engraving— a simple _You found me_ in cursive script, along with the date they’d first met on Eighth and Pollux.

Keith admires the small red rubies that wind all the way around the ring as Shiro shakingly fits it onto his finger, as delicate with him as he is with spun sugar. It’s unlike any engagement ring he’s ever seen; unlike any he’d ever imagined, not that he’d spent much time trying. The dark metal is just right against his skin and the touch of ruby appeals to him the same way cherry red cars and crimson leather do.

“I hope you like it,” Shiro says, his touch lingering on Keith’s skin. “I know it’s not really a traditional design…”

“I _love_ it.” Keith sighs in blatant satisfaction as he runs a fingertip along its darkly glittering curve. “How long have you been holding onto this?”

Shiro’s relief is written plain across his face. “Um, well… I started saving about six months ago,” he says, eyes wandering as he thinks back, “and I bought it last month. I asked Krolia and Kolivan to help me choose what you’d like best,” he adds, his cheeks deepening in color.

Keith’s smile only grows wider. “Brave of you.”

His mother and uncle had known, then. Knew he had his father’s ring and meant to give it to Shiro; knew Shiro was buying him one to the same end. And they’d been happy to sit back and let it all play out without so much as a hint. Keith wouldn’t be surprised to learn there’d been a bet going on who’d pop the question first, too.

And he knows now how Shiro felt last night. The ring on his finger is a sight Keith simply can’t tear himself away from— except to clumsily throw his weight against Shiro as they kiss, until he tips backward and they sprawl on the plush carpeting together. Keith slides eagerly against the bare, broad body caught underneath him, paying no mind when his towel slips off in the process.

They end up missing the train.

* * *

Hopelessly behind schedule, they buy last-minute tickets on a different train to Nara. Shiro is restless for most of the ride, leg bouncing in place while he strums his fingers along the armrest. It’s unlike him, and even Keith’s hand laid atop his prosthetic doesn’t seem to calm him.

It’s nerves, Keith supposes, from the many years that have lapsed since Shiro last found his way home. He’d been battered by the hairpin turns of life, awash in debt, and then swamped with the responsibilities of starting and maintaining a business— none of which left him the spare time or cash to take a week off. And Keith knows well enough from his own youth that distance from loved ones can allow all kinds of misgivings and doubts to slip in...

The roll of the countryside outside their window offers a welcome distraction. Keith points and asks questions meant to drag Shiro out of the mire of his thoughts, which have a worrying tendency to circle round and round like Nova chasing her own tail. It only halfway works, Shiro giving him faint smiles and quiet answers before lapsing back into thoughtful silence.

A luggage service is taking most of their suitcases straight to the house, so all they have to contend with as they leave the train station are their backpacks and a single rolling carry-on, which Keith takes responsibility for before Shiro can stop him.

The streets are neat and orderly, easy to navigate and lined with greenery in the form of small trees and potted plants. Though the day is dreary and drizzly, Keith enjoys the fifteen or twenty minutes it takes for Shiro to lead them to his grandfather’s home, making small observations aloud as they walk.

“That salon used to be a bookstore,” he whispers as they stop for a traffic light. “And I don’t remember there being a stadium over there…”

They wind through residential neighborhoods until Shiro eventually slows to a stop and stares across the narrow street.

It’s a simple house with a white gate and dark shutters. A slender maple tree peeks over the high garden wall, its leaves a vivid orange-red. The tiny driveway hosts a bicycle and a scooter parked side-by-side.

Shiro hums. “The gate used to be black. I guess they painted it.”

“I guess so.” Keith sends a glance sideways at Shiro, looking him up and down, and then rejoins him in staring at the compact house.

“My grandpa used to have a motorcycle, too,” Shiro continues, letting the drizzle coat his hair and eyelashes and dust his shoulders. “A Suzuki. Black and red. He loved that bike, but he sold it right after my— once I came to live with him. Got a little scooter with a sidecar instead so I could ride around with him.”

Keith smiles at the thought of a young Shiro buckled in for trips across town, in oversized goggles and windswept hair. “You ready to head in?” he asks, giving his fiancé’s hand a little squeeze.

It’s odd to see Shiro drag his heels on this, considering his sheer determination allows him to relentlessly power through tax filings and backbreaking workout sessions with minimal complaint. And as far as Keith’s ever been able to tell, Shiro has a good relationship with his family, if a little stilted by the distance between them and the general upheaval in his life over the last few years.

“It’s just been a while,” Shiro sighs, raking a hand back through his drizzle-damp hair. “Too long.”

“They understand why you haven’t been able to visit until now,” Keith assures him, leaning over to bump shoulders with Shiro. “And just so you know, _I’m_ the one meeting my future in-laws here, so I have more right to be nervous.”

Shiro’s laugh comes out in a huff. “They’re going to love you, Keith. Don’t worry yourself, alright?”

Keith can’t help but raise his brows, skeptical. Growing up with a certain image and a reputation to match it, he was more used to parents flashing tight smiles and not-so-subtly edging their kids toward other classmates. But he’s grown since then, inside and out, and this week Keith is putting his best foot forward; his outfit is less leather and more cashmere, his hair hair neatly trimmed, and a litany of safe conversation starters repeats itself in his mind ad nauseum.

They cross the street together, slip through the gate, and then climb a few stairs to a small landing before the front door. There isn’t even time to knock before the door is thrown wide open, a woman around his mother’s age standing expectantly on the other side.

There are traces of similarity in her beaming expression, little things that remind him of Shiro— the heights of her cheekbones and the deep grey eyes behind her round glasses, the brightness of her smile. Keith can’t help but smile at the streaks of grey-white that run down her long, dark hair, just as stark and pretty a contrast as Shiro has.

She immediately sweeps Shiro into a hug and draws him inside, over the threshold; her face still buried in Shiro’s shoulder, she blindly extends an arm and reaches for Keith, too. “Oh, I’m so glad you two are finally here!”

Uncertain and awkward, he shuffles closer, allowing Shiro’s aunt to tug him in and make it a brief group hug. As they part, she pats both of their shoulders and suddenly Keith thinks he understands the origins of Shiro’s propensity to touch.

Shiro shifts in place, gently taking the rolling carry-on from Keith’s hand and pushing it toward the rest of their luggage, already delivered and sitting by the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor. “Keith, this is my aunt—”

“Tomomi,” she finishes introducing herself, too excited to wait. “Keith, it’s so good to finally meet you! We’ve been— oh, my father just went outside, too. By the way, your schedule said you’d be here over an hour ago, Takashi.”

With a sudden blush, Shiro launches into a swift explanation about missing their train, though he skirts cleanly around the reason for their distraction and delay. As he and his aunt catch up, Keith surveys the small, tidy home around him.

Neither of the Shiroganes notice as he toes off his sneakers and takes a few steps toward a wall plastered with photos— all of them of Shiro.

It’s glorious. Shiros as far as his eye can see, spanning from infancy and childhood school pictures to his crisp military portrait and printouts of articles about the bakery. From here, Keith can even spy a desktop in the next room over with a shot of young, dark-haired Shiro making his valedictorian speech as its wallpaper. He touches his leather-clad fingers to a framed photo of Shiro in a football uniform— clingy white pants and a black and gold jersey— kneeling on the field with a football in his gloved hands. He’s a dream. Bright-eyed, handsome, a high school heartthrob.

“Oh no,” Shiro breathes out loud behind him.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Keith murmurs. He’d laugh, but the next picture his gaze settles on steals his breath away. It’s framed, sitting on a neat little side table by the entrance, and Keith seizes on it like it’s the last red velvet cake in the pastry case.

Behind the polished glass is Shiro at his gangliest, all awkward height with none of the muscle to fill out his six-foot-three frame. His grin is wide but crooked, hampered by chunky, neon-banded braces; angry red acne dots his face all over.

With his teeth, Keith tugs off his right glove so he can run his bare fingertips across the glass. This was Shiro more than a decade before Keith knew him, but it’s still him. His Shiro. “You were so cute.”

“Uh, during the _Acne Years_?” Shiro asks, nose wrinkling doubtfully. “I was a pimply noodle.”

“Takashi!” Tomomi looks at him, scandalized. Her expression softens as she approaches Keith, perfectly manicured fingers trailing down the frame in his hands. “This is one of my favorite pictures, too. I miss these years with him… wasn’t he adorable?”

“So adorable,” Keith agrees, eyeing Shiro over Tomomi’s shoulder. His fiancé rolls his eyes and busies himself by stacking their shoes away neatly in the tiny closet by the front door.

“I could send you this photo, if you want,” Tomomi offers. “And more like it.”

“Please,” Keith whispers as he returns the picture to its spot on the table. He smiles and adds, “Here, I got some good shots of him at Disney. We can swap.”

He tugs out his phone and starts flicking through pictures from their morning at the park, careful to stop well short of the proposal— that’s news they’re saving to share with Shiro’s grandfather, too. Tomomi loves it all, especially the handful of photos he’d gotten of Shiro posing beside Duffy Bear.

“Oh, your grandfather will want to see these,” she says a little louder, casting a look back at Shiro, the white-streaked curtain of her hair slipping down over her shoulder as her head turns. Keith only notices then that Tomomi is _tall_ , though not quite Shiro’s height. “He’s in the garden out back. Would you two go bring him in to start dinner?”

As Shiro beckons him toward the hall, Keith pockets his phone and follows. There are more photos along these walls and through the kitchen: shots of Shiro as a toddler, sitting on his mother’s lap; family portraits, some with Shiro’s parents but most without; yet more pictures of him as a teen, his hair either long or buzzed short, skin still recovering from what Shiro had dubbed the Acne Years.

A sliding glass door takes them to a small backyard utterly dominated by garden plants. A short man— Shiro’s grandfather, Keith surmises— stands hunched over a raised bed of winter-growing greens, a trowel in hand. He drops it in the potting soil upon seeing them.

“Takashi!”

Arms outstretched, he waits for Shiro to close the gap and draw him into a hug with copious back-patting and hair-ruffling, and again Keith thinks he understands why Shiro’s touch so easily finds his shoulder and rests there, or how his hands always seem to busy themselves in stroking his hair.

Shiro keeps a hand on his grandfather’s arm as they head up the steps to the small porch, the old man grinning as he makes a beeline for Keith.

No pressure. It’s only Shiro’s beloved grandfather he’s meeting, after all. The man who single-handedly raised him from age five to eleven. Half of Shiro’s closest living family.

Keith’s grateful he’s still got his gloves on, or else his palm-sweat would be everywhere.

“Grandpa, this is Keith—”

“Keith!” the old man exclaims, taking his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “I recognize you from Takashi’s twitter! And from all the pictures of the bakery. We’re so honored to have you with us. Call me Naoto, please.”

“Naoto,” Keith repeats, flexing his hand when Naoto finally releases him. He’s awfully strong for an old man, hair gone grey-white and his figure a little stooped, but Keith can see the resemblance to Shiro in the lines of his body and the cut of his features. “Glad to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You know, I’ve never gotten to meet one of Takashi’s boyfriends before,” Naoto says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Grandpa,” Shiro groans, a warning note in his weak protest.

“It’s because you’re the best one,” Naoto continues, undeterred. He gives Keith a wink. “Nobody else has ever made the cut. You’re the very first one he’s ever wanted to bring home to me.”

Keith looks to Shiro, whose mouth remains halfway open in some mix of surprise and mortification. But after a moment, Shiro shrugs and says, “Well. That’s true.”

Once inside, Naoto ushers them upstairs to change and settle in until dinner is ready. They drag their luggage up to Shiro’s childhood bedroom, Keith eagerly clearing the steps despite the two suitcases he’s hauling in either hand.

Shiro’s room is everything he’d dreamed of. He flops onto the bed— a comfortable full size, apparently moved in here just for their stay— and breathes deep, absorbing everything he can from the atmosphere of this Shiro-sanctuary. There are glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. What’s more, they form an accurate star map of the night sky. Keith recognizes the shapes of Cassiopeia, Perseus, Andromeda. Posters line the walls, decorating the room with diagrams of the atmosphere and various motorcycles and aircraft. A few feature cute, fat animal characters. There are even  _baby pictures_ on the nightstand.

Keith grabs one and holds it up for Shiro to see— it’s a swaddled baby grasping a finger tight. “This is you?”

“Unless I have a twin brother I don’t know about,” Shiro murmurs, more focused on stripping off his damp winter clothes and changing into comfortable pajama pants.

“It’s like a Shiro sanctum,” Keith sighs as he gently returns the photo to its place beside a slightly faded picture of Shiro at maybe three or four, standing in the surf beside his mom and dad. “Do you remember this?”

Shiro squints, his expression turning airy soft. “Not really. It’s from a vacation to Hawaii, but I only know it from pictures and stories.”

He lies down on the bed beside Keith, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his middle.

“I like your room.” He pets Shiro’s hair, combing the growing patch of white aside. “And I like your aunt and grandpa. They’re really… enthusiastic people.”

“They’re just worked up over meeting you,” Shiro says, color appearing on his cheeks. He rolls over on his side, head propped up on a bent arm, and smiles sheepishly. “And if you think they’re bad now, just imagine how they’re gonna flip when we tell them we’re engaged.”

* * *

Dinner is an impressive number of small dishes surrounding the main meal of warm, spicy broth swimming with seafood and vegetables. While Naoto finishes the last little touches, Tomomi passes around chilled beers and encourages Keith to get comfortable.

As they settle around the table to eat, warm and cozy in the tight corner of the kitchen where the table is wedged, Keith feels his stomach roll with a ravenous hunger. He waits while Tomomi fills his bowl with meat and vegetables from the pot bubbling at the center of the table; she makes sure he gets big, fat prawns and slices of seared beef, hearty blocks of tofu and wilted greens. It’s like being at home with his family again, his mother and uncles ceaselessly plying him with generous portions.

Keith waits until everyone else has a full bowl before diving into his own. It’s spicy, tasty, perfectly satisfying after coming in from the fall chill. It warms Keith down to his bones, and he makes sure to pay Shiro’s grandfather the compliment.

The old man ducks his head and subtly waves off the praise, but there’s no hiding his pleased smile. “It’s just a simple meal made by a simple man, but thank you. Have as much as you like!” he adds, gesturing to to the spread.

“Here, you’ll like these,” Shiro says, lifting a few thin-cut pickled radishes from his bowl and transferring them to Keith’s. The warm kitchen lighting glints sharply off of the white and chrome of Shiro’s latest upgrade, catching eyes around the table now that he’s in something short-sleeved.

“Look at that new arm,” Naoto says, whistling low. “When did you get that?”

“Just a few weeks ago,” Shiro says, laying down his chopsticks to roll his wrist and show off the quick, nimble digits. “Brand new model. Keith’s connections at Sincline hooked me up with it. They’re actually working on developing more advanced prostheses using some of the same tech in their line of hoverbikes.”

That receives twin _oooh_ s from Shiro’s aunt and grandfather, who look to Keith with renewed wonder.

One corner of Naoto’s mouth tugs back in a smile that borders on sly. “So, Keith… Takashi’s told me that you like to race.”

“Yeah. Uh, yes,” Keith clarifies with a little cough. He glances to the side, hoping for a save from Shiro— or at least some indication of where he’s supposed to take this conversation— but he’s left high and dry, Shiro more focused on stirring up the contents of his bowl.

Keith decides on honesty, regardless of the picture of him it paints. “I, uh, used to do some drag racing, yeah. And some street racing. Before I met Shiro. I had a… well, I think I was pretty good at it.”

“ _Pretty good_?” Beside him, Shiro snorts around a mouthful of food. He looks pointedly to his aunt and grandfather, still chewing. “He’s a local legend. I get left in the dust when we go offroad racing.”

“I take it you won often, then?” Naoto asks in between nibbling down a chunk of cabbage, his eyebrows lifted in interest.

“Yes, sir. Made a good chunk of money off of it,” Keith admits, wary of making a bad impression even as he says it. His chopsticks slip a little in his sweaty hands, but he corrects the bobble and immediately shoves a large chunk of meat into his mouth, chewing furiously.

But as Naoto grins and gives him a little nod, Keith feels _approval_.

“My father was something of a daredevil back in his day,” Tomomi says, giving Keith a conspiratorial little smile that immediately sets him at ease. “He loved his bike. I bet he’d love to pick your brain about your work with Sincline, too.”

And for the first time, Shiro’s gregarious grandfather actually looks shy. “Oh, I don’t want to bother him with shoptalk—”

“No, Keith loves that,” Shiro says through a packed mouthful of broth-soaked rice.

He does. The conversation rolls smoothly for the next ten to fifteen minutes as Keith settles into something approximating his comfort zone. Shiro and his aunt make chit chat between themselves as he and Naoto go back and forth about technical specs and the hoverbikes due to be released next year, Keith fielding question after question.

Shiro’s grandfather has a mechanical mind, too, an eye and a keen interest for how things work. He’d spent time as a mechanic in the air force before the constraints of the military began to chafe. Once a civilian again, he’d made such a name for himself in illicit street racing that he’d gotten some unwanted attention from criminal organizations hoping to make use of his talents.

The details there go a little vague and fuzzy, Naoto waving away the specifics with a flippant hand. What matters, he says, is that he and his wife eventually settled here and fell in love with the nearby countryside; their outings on his prized Suzuki became less about tearing across pavement and more about enjoying each other’s company and the surrounding forest. He sounds wistful about it, and Keith softens in thinking of the pictures on the walls that _aren’t_ of Shiro— photos of family members who died years ago, leaving just the three Shiroganes sitting before him.

“I’m sorry you had to sell the bike,” Keith says, poking at the food in his bowl. And even that much makes him fidget with nervousness for having misspoken. There’s a line between prying and coming off cold that he’s never been too certain of, and least of all here with people he barely knows but is desperate to win over.

“Ah, thank you. I did have fond memories of it,” Shiro’s grandfather sighs, his smile mellow. “But I made even more precious memories without it. I couldn’t very well bring Takashi with me on my motorcycle, but the scooter? He was always right by my side, right where I wanted him,” Naoto says, reaching over to ruffle his grandson’s hair. “Those were some of my favorite afternoons, you know. Takashi in his helmet and goggles, yelling for me to go faster, faster, faster!”

“That explains a lot,” Keith says, grinning. The jet-piloting. The enthusiasm for racing Sincline’s hoverbikes. The penchant for daredevil antics that had utterly taken Keith by surprise the first time he watched Shiro— patient, worryingly responsible, ‘make sure reapply your sunscreen every two hours’ Shiro— take a flying leap off of a thirty-foot bluff.

Tomomi eyes Shiro over the rim of her glass as she drinks. “It certainly does.”

At Keith’s inquisitive look, Shiro ducks his head and murmurs, “Tomomi taught me how to drive.”

“And look, I’m still white-knuckled from it,” she laughs, leaning over to show Keith one long-fingered hand. He’s more focused on the pretty fade of her dark nail color, from black to a rich violet, and the tiny mole on the back of her hand that’s almost identical to Shiro’s.

“Ha ha,” Shiro deadpans. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Tomomi casts Keith a sidelong look. “No, Takashi was a good boy,” she concedes, squinting as she looks at her red-faced nephew. She lifts her index finger, as if making a point, and turns her gaze to Keith. “But not as good as everyone _thought_.”

“Good at getting away with things,” Naoto quietly supplies, getting a loud, vindicated clap and enthusiastic nodding from his daughter.

“Okay, I think it’s time for a change of topic,” Shiro suddenly announces while wiping his mouth on a napkin, steadfastly ignoring Keith’s inquiring smile. “Keith and I— so, we have some good news we wanted to share.”

“Oh! Are you opening another location already?” his grandfather asks. “Did I mention that I got my whole hiking club to follow the bakery’s twitter? Your jellyfish cake was a big hit. Everyone raved about it for days.”

“It’s bigger than the bakery,” Shiro says, and Keith can just barely glimpse him sneakily slipping his ring back on under the table; he follows suit.

Naoto and Tomomi both blink at that, as if the idea of anything eclipsing Shiro’s rising star business is nearly unthinkable. Out of sight, Shiro’s prosthetic hand roams into Keith’s lap to take his hand. A softly textured synthetic thumb finds the jeweled band on Keith’s ring finger and gently strokes it.

There’s a moment of hesitation as Shiro takes a deep breath, smiling open-mouthed and blushing as sweetly as the first time Keith had brought him flowers at work, cheeks pinker than the peonies. “We’re getting married.”

The faint bubbling of the simmering hotpot is surreally loud in the shocked silence that follows. Keith can see it happen in slow-motion, almost— Shiro’s aunt and grandfather stare at the two of them, then each other, and then back to them, pointedly glancing down to where their hands are hidden under the table.

There’s a tumbling outburst of Japanese as Tomomi and Naoto speak over each other in a rush of too many words for Keith to even attempt to process. He smiles all the same as the Shiroganes boisterously share their excitement.

Breathlessly, and as if only just recalling that Keith knows just the most basic of travel phrases and polite conversation, Tomomi asks, “Since when? How long have you been engaged? Can I see the ring? Who asked who? This is all happening so fast,” she murmurs, hands buried in her thick hair.

“Keith proposed to me first, last night at Disney,” Shiro says, stretching out his left arm for his family to gasp and admire his ring. “And then I proposed to him the next morning. You’re the first ones to know.”

“It’s beautiful,” Naoto says as he runs his thumb along the curve of Shiro’s ring before heartily squeezing his grandson’s hand.

“It belonged to Keith’s father,” Shiro explains, face aglow as his aunt drags his hand— and him, by extension— closer for a better look.

Tomomi’s full, plum-glossed lips thin into a smile that wavers with restrained emotion. She drags a knuckle along her lower lashes and mumbles something about waterproof mascara before asking to see Keith’s ring, too.

“Oh, I _love_ it!” Tomomi exclaims as Keith holds up his hand and displays the dark, ruby-studded band. She and Naoto aren’t as touchy with him as they are with Shiro, displaying a little more restraint as he stands and leans over the table to let them see the ring up close. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s amazing,” Keith says, feeling the creep of his own blush under all the attention, however warm and glowing it may be. It’s still new, having the ring and seeing it on himself. So is the chokingly sweet swell of emotion that comes when he thinks about it too long.

To his left, he notices Shiro shift in his seat, leaning over to cup his grandfather’s shoulder in his hand. There’s a concerned murmur, a question in a language Keith doesn’t yet know, as Shiro attentively worries over the old man; Naoto’s face is hidden as he stares down at the table, forehead braced against folded hands.

“Our family just kept getting smaller and smaller over the years,” Naoto says after a moment, lifting his head. He wipes at red-rimmed eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “But now I get to see it grow… I am so happy for the both of you. And I’m sure your mother and father are just as proud, Takashi.”

Shiro smiles and closes his eyes as his grandfather cups his face and gently pats him on cheek. On Shiro’s other side, Keith reaches out and gives the soft swell of his bicep a gentle squeeze.

While Naoto grabs a few glasses, Tomomi fishes a sleek, pretty bottle from the back of a the refrigerator. She hands it off to Shiro to pop open, which he suavely manages with his prosthetic hand.

“That was supposed to be for the last night of your stay,” she says as Shiro pours out a measure for each of them. She grins as Shiro hands her the fullest glass. “But there’s plenty of time to buy more.”

As they drink late into the night, the conversation eventually shifts from tearful congratulations and gleeful wedding talk to comfortable conversation. Keith learns more about Tomomi— an industrial designer who’d raised Shiro from middle school onward— and the teenage years Shiro had spent under her roof in Seattle. She’d only moved back to Nara last winter, it turned out, and had been trying the long-distance thing with her girlfriend ever since.

By the time he and Shiro head upstairs for the night, faces flushed from the alcohol and spicy food and the laughter spawned from stories of Shiro’s childhood exploits, Keith feels at home.

“I like getting to see the parade of Shiros,” Keith says as they pass a row of pictures along the wall of the staircase. “It’s giving me ideas for redecorating the apartment—”

Shiro’s laugh comes out in an ugly snort. He wobbles on the step above, braced quickly by Keith’s hands pressed along the expanse of his back. “Absolutely not.”

“We could use the hallway to showcase the evolution of Shiro, baby to baker. The Shirovolution, if you will.”

In the bedroom, his fiancé wastes no time in stripping off his shirt. The skin underneath is reddened with a full-body blush that doesn’t quite mask the faint outlines of this morning’s open-mouthed bites and gently sucked bruises. “Do it and I’ll enlist Krolia to help me get every embarrassing picture of you as a teen. Plaster them all over the opposite wall.”

“Jokes on you. There are no bad pictures of me.”

Mostly because there are almost no pictures of him at all. He’s never been one to take a lot of photos— the first to duck out of the room when cameras get pulled out, or easily hide behind his larger uncles and cousins during family pictures— but his teenage years are a particularly conspicuous void of photographic evidence. For the best.

“I’m going to ask Krolia anyway,” Shiro decides, pointing a metal finger into his chest. “Or Kolivan. There _has_ to be something of you all sweaty and awkward before your first school dance. _Someone_ in your ginormous family had to have snapped a picture during your sullen teen phase. There’s gotta be a pic of you missing your front teeth,” he mumbles wistfully, “after you collided with that mailbox.”

Keith smiles as Shiro cups his face and gently smooshes his cheeks, adoring and very much drunk. He makes a doubtful sound. “I dunno… I was pretty good at dodging photos, Shiro.”

“Whatever,” Shiro sighs, not sounding the slightest bit deterred, actually. With more drama than is his usual way, he goes limp and flops onto the bed. “I’ll just make a montage of Bigfoot-esque snapshots of you skulking in the background, then.”

Keith allows himself be pulled down onto the mattress, bouncing as he lands in the sliver of bed not occupied by Shiro’s considerable mass. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” The sweet sentiment is slurred with sleepiness and the bleariness of too much drink, Shiro clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I love you, too,” Keith assures him, winding their fingers together and pressing a long kiss to the back of Shiro’s hand.

The last thing Keith does before dozing off next to his sweaty fiancé is tweet a dozen of their engagement selfies to his private account: shots of them in their mouse ears at Disney, backlit by fireworks; a close-up of Shiro’s ring clearly taken in the park’s gift shop; Keith showing off his ring in the hotel room as Shiro presses a kiss to his cheek; their hands side by side on the train’s armrest. It’s a decent hour back home, and almost immediately the notifications alight with reponses.

They can wait, though. Keith takes the time to respond to a text from his mom, thrilled and eager to know who was the first to crack and propose, and then immediately succumbs to the weariness of a long day and the lulling warmth of good beer and champagne.

He dreams of asking Shiro the same question in a dozen other places and just as many ways— and always the answer is _yes_.

* * *

Their return is an uphill adjustment, though everything is much the same as when they left it. Keith finds himself missing the sights and flavors of Tokyo and Nara, the excitement of exploring somewhere new. He longs for the luxury of wandering hand-in-hand with Shiro, beholden to nothing but their own whims and a thirty-page itinerary. And he misses Shiro’s family most of all— people who love Shiro like he does, avid and proud, and had seemed to recognize that he was cut of the same Shiro-loving cloth, too.

Certain smells take Keith back to mornings spent helping Naoto in the garden, listening as he makes vegetable puns in two languages, or to the cozy cafes Tomomi would sweep them into as they shopped around town. He thinks he can tell when Shiro is reminiscing, too, by the distant fondness in his eyes and the traces of a smile that hang at the corners of his mouth.

It was worth leaving for the trip to Shiro’s childhood home. It was, in every way, much-needed and well-deserved. And yet... Keith can’t help but nurse a mighty guilt as Hunk scoops Shiro into a tearful hug upon their four a.m. return to the bakery on a Tuesday morning, murmuring gratitude into the breadth of Shiro’s shoulder.

“I missed you both so much!” Hunk says as he rocks Shiro back and forth. “I’ve been counting down the days, man! Even Lance was moping about how he couldn’t wait for you to be back, Keith. Nyma and Rolo, too.”

“That busy, huh?” Shiro asks, tone verging on worried.

Keith’s guilt lessens by a fraction as they unload a bounty of souvenir gifts onto Hunk: specialty sea salt, artisan soy sauce, and dozens of sweets, along with Disney merch and a set of fancy chef’s knives they’d picked up in Ginza. It’s a small measure of gratitude compared to how much Hunk had shouldered in their absence, but he gushes over each and every present.

“Allura said there were no major hiccups,” Keith mentions once Hunk is done marveling at the sleekly forged steel that cost over a hundred dollars per inch of blade, his large hands excessively delicate while handling them.

“Well,” Hunk hems, head tilting side to side. He waves his arm and gestures to the bakery around them, still dim with the low lighting of pre-open, as if to affirm that it still has four walls and remains standing. “I mean, it could’ve been worse. There weren’t any fires or code violations, sure, but running this place without you was a nightmare. But I’m glad you had a great time in Japan! But it was literally hell without you two here. But congratulations on the engagement!”

Keith grimaces as he thanks Hunk for his well-wishing. “Sorry, Hunk. Probably should’ve just closed up shop for a few weeks…”

Hunk’s expression turns crestfallen. “Oh, no, I don’t want that. I— this is like— the bakery means a lot to me, too. And I’d hate to disappoint the regulars. We might need to streamline the menu a bit, though,” he adds, eyebrows upturned as he looks to Shiro for direction.

“Good call,” Shiro reluctantly agrees as he throws on his apron and ties a neat little bow behind his back. He shoulders through the kitchen door and beckons Hunk back with him. “Here, let’s talk while we start mixing dough. Don’t want to start off the day running behind.”

As the bakers retreat to the kitchen, Keith preps the front and gets some coffee brewing. He fixes three cups, making sure that Shiro’s is cooled with soy creamer until it’s beige and sweetened with so much syrup that it affects the drink’s viscosity. His own coffee is a dark roast with a small dollop of honey, still edging on bitter, and Hunk’s happily sits somewhere in the middle, tempered by just a touch of cream and sugar.

The shop slowly hums to life as the first batches of muffins and cinnamon pastries go into the ovens. Closer to opening time, Lance shows up, still prone to fits of yawning and stretching as he helps Keith fill the display case and ready the cafe. He seems genuinely surprised at the two oversized gift bags Keith hands him, blinking as he sifts through dolphin-patterned tissue paper. One is from Shiro— heavy with face masks, moisturizers, and cologne they’d picked up in a high-end department store as they browsed for something sparkly to go with Allura’s cherry blossom tea. Keith’s contribution comes in the way of a couple of jackets and a pair of sneakers that looked like they’d suit Lance’s tastes.

Lance’s eyes are watery as he lifts out a navy and black number that’s undeniably fashion-forward, thumbs stroking over the luxurious material. “Keith, I— I can’t believe it. You actually have good taste,” he cries as he slips the coat on and immediately bounces into the kitchen to show it off.

That’s about what Keith expected.

The morning rush hits like never before— or so it feels to Keith— and begins an uphill slog that doesn’t break until well after noon. It leaves his hair damply plastered to the back of his neck and his nerves frazzled by the amassed pool of customers waiting on their orders. Lance seems to fare better, humming through the chaos as Keith struggles to make an unending stream of coffees and keep an eye on the steady dwindling of the display case. And through the day, Keith gets only glimpses of Shiro in between boxing orders and taking calls, his fiancé rosy-cheeked and aglow with a faint sheen of sweat as he works almost nonstop amid the sweltering ovens and stovetops.

That’s the worst part, maybe. Missing Shiro even when he’s just a room away.

As things finally begin to slow, it’s already time for Keith to take off. He steals a quick kiss from Shiro, sorely tempted to ignore the rest of his responsibilities and bury himself against Shiro’s flour-dusted front. With a last, lingering look, Keith heads out the door to make an overdue visit to his old high school, stretching his tired limbs every time he has to stop his bike for a red light.

Though it’s been a decade since he was a student slinking through these halls, Keith can’t help but shy from the teaching staff as they greet him with smiles and enthusiastic thanks. The kids are easier company. They tear into a box of slightly smushed cupcakes he brought with him and then clamber around to see pictures from his trip with Shiro, as eager to congratulate him as they are to boast about what colleges and trade schools they’ve applied to while he was away.

At the end of the day, Keith hauls himself up to the apartment with a weariness that threatens to pull him to the floor. Though it takes great effort, he manages to drag himself to the couch and flop down, his jacket and shoes still on. He has no choice but to submit to a flurry of licks from one wiggle-butting Nova, groaning through tightly sealed lips as she grows increasingly persistent.

“Shoo, Nova.” Shiro’s voice moves closer, from the kitchen to the open living room. While Keith lays facedown like a drunken starfish, Shiro unlaces his boots and pulls them off of his feet for him. “Let your dad relax and eat some dinner.”

With a protracted, labored grunt, Keith slowly rolls over and pulls himself up into a sitting position just in time to accept the bowl Shiro hands him. It’s some kind of pasta ribboned with basil and chunks of olive, fragrant with garlic and sweet tomatoes. A growling twist in Keith’s gut reminds him that he’d been so pressed for time all day that he never really paused to eat.

Shiro settles down beside him and turns on a documentary about potatoes. In the quiet space of a harvest montage, both of them deep in their bowls, he says, “Today kind of kicked my ass.”

“Mine, too,” Keith grumbles around his food. He stabs at the blistered cherry tomatoes among the penne, satisfied when they pop. “Am I getting fucking ancient, or did going on vacation really throw us off this badly? We were pulling days longer than this just fine before we left.”

Keith focuses on shoveling forkfuls of food into his mouth and chewing them down. He doesn’t relish the thought of waking at three a.m. tomorrow morning and doing it all over again, but at least he has a loving fiancé to lean on through the post-vacation slump.

“We all probably got a little too used to long days and heavy workloads,” Shiro muses out loud. “But I think it’s more than that, too. Bringing on Lance and Hunk definitely helped us keep up with demand, but… things have never really slowed down. Or plateaued, even. The truck sells out early all the time. The rushes have gotten busier and busier.”

“If you and Hunk didn’t bake so damn good,” Keith teasingly complains as he leans into the other man’s side, “maybe we wouldn’t be so slammed.”

“It’s a good problem to have, for sure.” Shiro sets his near-empty bowl aside and wriggles down lower in his seat. The way he shifts closer feels natural, as does the hand that curls through Keith’s hair, fingers combing through the little tangles left by a day of harried rushing down windy streets and the on-and-off of his motorcycle helmet. “But today made me realize something important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shiro’s breaths are soft where they catch in the messy strands of Keith’s hair; even without looking, Keith knows the kind of smile he’s wearing. “I love what I do, Keith. And I love that I get to do it with you. If you told fifteen-year-old me that one day I’d be an ex-pilot running my own bakery with the hottest man in the universe, I’d— well, I’d probably wonder what the hell happened with the piloting gig and why I have a sick metal arm, but after that I’d be _losing my shit_.”

Keith can’t help but laugh and lean further into Shiro’s touch, the documentary still droning in the background.

“I don’t want to get burned out on my dream job, though,” Shiro adds, voice dropped so low that Keith almost can’t hear him over the narration about potato cultivars. “And I don’t want Hunk under that kind of stress, either. Any of us. I’m not— I can handle hard days, but— I don’t mean to sound ungrateful—”

“No, I get it.” And he does. He’d seen the same vein of discussion play out between Kolivan and Antok when their business was younger, the growing pains of finding that balance. “I feel it, too.”

The worried curve along Shiro’s mouth changes to a smile; it grows as Keith rakes his fingers through his hair, carding through strands of white and black.

“I want more time to do other things with you, Keith,” Shiro murmurs, his eyes falling shut. “More time with Nova. More time with your family. I want to bake for _you_. For _fun_. I want more time with just the two of us, going camping or jogging or sleeping in. I miss being able to just take you out to lunch or tag along on your afterschool program visits.”

“Funny,” Keith mutters. “You just listed all the things I want, too.”

Shiro makes a soft grunt behind his closed lips. “Good. Good, but here’s the bad news… to divvy up the workload, I think we could use at least four people full-time. And another two or three part-time, maybe,” Shiro says, sighing heavily. “I checked the numbers and with benefits and good pay, that’s—”

“However many people you need,” Keith assures him, cutting Shiro off before he can spend another second needlessly worrying about the money. “It’ll be better for everyone in the long run. Just do it quick, Shiro. Ask Allura if she knows anyone. See if you can get some interviews on for tomorrow.”

“That soon, huh?” Shiro asks, shifting as Keith wriggles into his lap.

“The sooner we get all staffed up, the sooner I get to take you camping,” Keith reminds him, his smile brightening as Shiro makes a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You, me, Nova, and a tent. Nothing but us under the stars, hiking and fishing and seeing the sights. We’ll cook hot dogs over a fire. I’ll teach you to clean a fish. We can tell ghost stories.”

Gravitating to wilderness and woodland isn’t exactly Shiro’s natural inclination— not like it is for Keith, at least, who still clings to memories of spending long weekends trekking through wind-withered shrublands and canyons with his father. But Keith wants nothing more than to draw Shiro into that quiet with him, to take him by the hand through the trails he’d spent the last few years walking alone.

“It’s a plan,” Shiro agrees, kissing into the messy crown of Keith’s hair, against his ear, over the crest of his cheek. “Just don’t let any sasquatches or forest witches get me.”

* * *

In practical terms, being engaged changes nothing in their day to day life. They still sleep together, wake together, work together, and spend their free time attached at the hip, as comfortably close as ever. Only now they do it in their conspicuous engagement bands, occasionally locking eyes and slowly smiling at the reminder of a blustery day months past that had ended in fireworks, literal and metaphorical.

Lance makes a point of telling the new hires that they’re allowed to gag whenever he and Shiro get lost in each other’s eyes. Nadia Rizavi is the only one brave enough to follow through.

She and the rest— Ina, Ryan, and James— came to the bakery fresh out of culinary school. And while Shiro and Hunk, both self-taught, had privately confided they were a little nervous to be leading chefs with actual formal training, the kitchen gels together like a perfectly set mousse.

Ryan and Hunk quickly bond over their respective sourdough starters. Ina admires Shiro’s immaculately organized kitchen and takes to following him around to compare methods. Nadia and Lance are, unfortunately, equally terrible flirts and the loudest people in any given room. And Keith is surprised to find he has his own shadow in the form of James, a stickler for rules who bristles every time Lance pokes fun at either of their employers and turns beet-red when he intrudes on Keith kissing Shiro goodbye one afternoon, stammering apologies as he hightails it out of the back alley where Keith parks his bike.

Altogether, Keith’s glad to have them. The larger staff means shorter hours all around and more flexibility in scheduling. It’s good to see Hunk relaxed enough to duck out early and bring pies over to his parents’ house; better still to see Shiro less stressed, happily humming as he arranges shifts and delegates special orders to his expanded staff.

It also means more mornings in which he and Shiro can linger in bed until sunrise, twined together until one of them finally rolls out of bed to walk Nova. And more weekends where Shiro can put their luxe kitchen to use as he whips up stuffed breads and elaborate cakes to bring to dinner with Keith’s family, or prepare dozens of cookies in neat, bow-wrapped bags for when they visit Sincline at Lotor’s invitation. It strikes the right balance, Keith thinks, between the fulfillment of running the bakery and the relaxation of enjoying their lives outside of it, too.

It gives Shiro time to start planning the wedding, too. He steadfastly refuses every one of Keith’s offers to hire a professional to handle the details, which… isn’t entirely unexpected. There’s something endearing about his fiancé turning giddy at the prospect of buying new color-coded binders and printing off elaborate spreadsheets, excited to plan a wedding that will have to accommodate a hundred relatives on the Marmora side alone. Endearing and _absolutely impossible to relate to_ on Keith’s end, but still.

Keith is as supportive as he can be while happily taking a backseat to the nitty-gritty of wedding planning. He takes it upon himself to order pizza on nights when Allura comes over for “pre-pre-planning” (which seems to consist of binging wedding shows as they trawl pinterest for ideas). For himself and Shiro, a large pie with half pineapple and half mushroom suffices; Allura, whose taste in toppings verges on the inedible, gets a pizza all to herself.

“Do you have a theme in mind?” Shiro asks one night as they lay in bed, Nova wedged between them on her back. “Colors you’d like? Any preferences at all, Keith?”

“Not really,” he answers as he scrolls through a massive block of text Hunk had sent regarding their next Monsters and Mana session. “I’ll be happy with whatever you want, Shiro.”

Shiro tilts his head, eyebrows lifting as he clearly aims to test that. “So, if I wanted a Gulf Shores destination wedding at the height of spring break with a tasteful Shrek theme, you’d still sign off on every check? Lord Farquad officiates. The reception is held at the nearest kegger on the beach. Our wedding night is spent scrubbing green body paint off of each other.”

“If that’s your awful dream wedding, then yes. I’ll support you,” Keith affirms, leaning over to kiss Shiro on the cheek.

“I’m not sure whether you bankrolling the nightmare wedding of the century is more touching or concerning,” Shiro says, an irresistible smile crossing his lips.

He floats various ideas Keith’s way, and while Keith himself doesn’t have any strong feelings about the season or the location or the table linens, he does his best to participate. Sometimes it’s as easy as letting Shiro talk through his thought process aloud and come to his own conclusion; other times, Keith has to do a little legwork and form an honest-to-god opinion on napkin holders.

There are a thousand and one details to attend to, large and small, and Shiro’s checklist spans pages and pages. With anyone else, Keith might find the whole ordeal unbearable— he’d be just as content running down to the courthouse and marrying Shiro spur of the moment, without a single guest or flower arrangement to slow them down. But with Shiro…

His love and patience run deep wherever Shiro is concerned. Nearly infinite, Keith thinks, but he is still a mere mortal who can only handle so many visits to craft stores and florists in a single day. It’s a testament to his unwavering commitment to Shiro that Keith only sighs as his fiancé’s attention catches on the window display of a high end boutique as they walk past, adding another impromptu stop to the end of a long day.

There’s no escape from the metal hand that grabs his and excitedly pulls him through the sleek glass doors, murmuring something about new outfits for Allura’s parents’ vow renewal ceremony.

Keith stares down a rack of dark wool jackets, immediately bored. “I already have two perfectly good suits.”

“You can own more than two, Keith,” Shiro reminds him before disappearing down a row of perfectly pressed clothing with a shop attendant.

Slowly, Keith shuffles to the waiting area outside the changing room and plops into a plush leather sofa so loudly that the employee behind the register glances in his direction, faint annoyance showing in the pinch of their brow. Frowning, Keith scoots to the other end of the couch, breaking line of sight, and gets comfortable.

It’s not a bad place to wait, actually. A clean white wall divides the changing area from the rest of the store, while a small fountain plugged into a nearby outlet burbles water that halfway masks the sound of Shiro and the floor attendant discussing silhouettes.

Keith situates the bags filled with freshly purchased scrapbooking supplies beside him and leans back against the sofa, eyes closed as his thoughts drift to the shakshuka Shiro had promised to make for dinner.

It can’t be more than ten minutes later that Keith hears the hushed murmur of voices fade away, the shop attendant dismissed, and the crisp click of dress shoes across the marble tiled floor approach. When his eyes open, it’s to Shiro standing before him in a sleek three-piece suit that hugs a hair tighter than it ought to, fabric stretching tight wherever Keith’s eye is drawn: the breadth of his shoulders, the width of his thighs, the soft bulge at the front of his pants.

“Fit looks good,” Keith says, forever stupidly impressed at how Shiro can make any kind of clothing look so good right off the rack. But then, that’s his body at work— the kind of proportions ancient sculptors would’ve marveled over, some kind of recipe for human perfection in every curve and twist of him.

“Feels good,” Shiro says before he slips off the suit jacket and carefully hangs it on a nearby hook, giving a slow spin on his heel to show off the rest of the outfit.

Keith’s eye skims up the perfectly pressed waistcoat, grey playing to the pretty color of Shiro’s eyes. He makes note of the crisp white shirt that struggles to keep the bulk of Shiro’s upper arms in check, rippling tight across his chest with every movement. Its collar sits snug around his throat, ringed by a satiny tie in a pale, blush pink.

“Buy me this?” Shiro asks as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, voice soft, lilting, hopeful. Their knees brush as he comes to stand in between the wide spread of Keith’s legs.

Idly, Keith catches the price tag attached to the waistcoat between two fingers and gives it a passing glance. The cost isn’t of any consequence, really, but there’s no fun in making it too easy for him. He meets Shiro’s patiently waiting look gives him a thoughtful hum, as if on the fence.

Shiro smiles and does a little half turn before dropping slow onto Keith’s lap, weight balanced on one of his strong, slender thighs. Fabric hisses as he slides in close, a powerfully muscled arm looping around Keith’s shoulders as he gets comfortable.

“Buy it and I’ll wear it home,” Shiro murmurs in his ear, casually hooking one of his knees over Keith’s other leg, “and then you can take me out of it.”

Keith groans as Shiro pointedly shifts in his lap, the heavy muscle in his thighs straining at the confines of the silk-lined virgin wool. His fiancé’s smile turns smugly confident as he teases at Keith’s collar and straightens his back under the slim hand that settles in the dip of his spine.

“Or we could do it here,” Shiro says, a shoulder lifting nonchalantly while he teases a lock of Keith’s grown out hair between two fingers. “But it’ll cost you more.”

Keith exhales with the windedness of Lance trying to match Shiro on the bench press. The tip of his tongue wets his lips as he thumbs at the perfectly knotted tie nestled at Shiro’s throat. He’d buy out the whole damn store if Shiro wanted it, truthfully, but his reservations are more a point of pride— they are _not_ going to fuck in a fitting room.

Not after the last time.

“I’d rather go home,” Keith whispers close, squeezing at the slack muscle of his fiancé’s upper thigh through the soft, finely spun wool. “And take my time with you.”

Shiro’s half-smile sits slightly crooked, eyes bright. As his prosthetic hand skims under Keith’s jaw, he makes an observation. “You’ve certainly grown in patience.”

“Yeah, well,” Keith sighs as Shiro stands and then pulls him to his feet, too. For a moment, he lingers in Shiro’s personal space, just breathing him in. “Having my friend and business partner overhear me giving you head in an upscale changing room isn’t exactly a road I’m ready to walk down again.”

Shiro’s cheeks color, the tiniest bit chastened. It’d been his moaning Keith’s name that had gotten them caught, after all, and neither of them had known any peace from Lotor’s particular brand of polite, dryboned snark ever since.

Even as he goes to pay, Keith’s mind is still decidedly focused elsewhere. On the man beside him, in particular, and the buttoned suit jacket that tapers so well at his waist, the material dark and clean and begging to be yanked off and left to wrinkle on the floor.

“Oh… this tie, too,” Shiro says as the attendant is still tallying up the cost of everything he’s wearing. He hands off a rolled silk tie in deep navy— nearly black, really— with a faint gold-foil starburst pattern pressed into the material. “And the silver tie bar in the case, please. And that rose gold one, too.”

Keith eyes the add-ons as he tugs out his wallet and hands over his card. It _is_ a nice tie, nighttime dark with just the right amount of flashy color to draw the eye— so pretty that Keith almost wishes Shiro were wearing it instead of the pale pink one already neatly knotted around his throat.

But he can always put in a request to see Shiro in it later, at one of Allura’s parties or Lotor’s fancy galas, or at dinner in one of the fine dining places Shiro loves to go to.

On the sidewalk, Keith notices heads turn as they walk past outdoor cafes and lines outside of coffee shops, stares lingering. It’s not unusual, considering Shiro is modelesque and distractingly jacked, but in a crisp new suit that leaves little to the imagination the attention seems heightened. Keith feels no small amount of satisfaction as he slips his arm around Shiro’s waist and tugs him close to his side, clingy and eager to get him home.

Shiro is more concerned with rifling through the smaller bag that holds the few purchases he didn’t walk out wearing. He fishes out the tie, flashing the dark silk at Keith. “You like it?”

“Mhm,” Keith says, nodding and squeezing Shiro a little tighter. There’s a flurry of guesswork happening at the forefront of his mind, trying to figure whether they’ll make it home faster on foot or if it’s worth calling a ride to take them a meager six blocks. “It’ll look good on you.”

Shiro turns his head and kisses against Keith’s temple, soft and quick and almost shy, now that they’re out in public. “I picked this one for you, Keith. It’ll look nicer with your eyes.”

“Wh— you didn’t have to— you should’ve gotten something else for yourself,” Keith mumbles, red-faced as he takes the offered tie and allows himself to really study it. He likes the color, the pattern, the soothing feel of it between his fingers. He likes that Shiro chose it for him. Keith has little patience for sifting through formalwear and even less interest in buying it for himself, but Shiro has a knack for choosing pieces that suit his tastes.

“But I wanted _you_ to have something new.” Shiro’s warm smile edges more toward smoldering. “And it’s still a gift for me, too, since I get to see you in it.”

“Yeah,” Keith croaks as Shiro holds open the glass door to the apartment lobby for him, broad frame purposefully crowding into the doorway so that Keith has to angle himself to squeeze past. His hip brushes against Shiro’s wool-clad thigh; the swell of his chest and shoulders under the fitted suit is damn near eye level.

Keith swallows as they get in the elevator, heated under the leather of his jacket and grey-washed denim that suddenly feel too restrictive. “You’re a menace.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro says, feigning ignorance as he unbuttons his jacket and casually rests a hand on his hip. The maneuver pushes aside the jacket material just enough to show the shapely curve of his butt under the impeccable fitted pants.

Keith snorts and shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to alleviate the tight stretch in his jeans without giving Shiro the satisfaction of being overt about it. He usually loses this kind of contest of wills, his patience the first to give out the second they’re behind closed doors, whether it’s in a fitting room, an elevator, a bathroom stall. But they’re close, now— so close, and Keith is still marginally more stubborn than he is horny.

With a tightly clenched jaw, he punches the numbers on the keypad beside their apartment door so hard the metal backing gives a little squeak. He’s barely over the threshold when Shiro effortlessly picks him up and carries him toward the bedroom, only stumbling a little when Nova tries to excitedly leap up to see Keith.

“Shoo. Shoo. We’ll walk in a minute,” Shiro tells her as he closes the bedroom door with an elbow.

“Only a minute?” Keith laughs as he’s spilled onto the bed, Shiro looming over him. He shakes his head as he slips a finger under Shiro’s waistcoat and tugs him in closer. “I wouldn’t plan on going anywhere until you’ve earned this nice new suit.”

* * *

Alongside the wedding, Shiro somehow finds the time to plan their vacations, too. They’re scattered through the rest of this year and into the next— a week here, a holiday weekend there— and each one ticks off a box on Keith’s bucket list of parks to visit.

They attend a painting workshop in Yosemite, Shiro struggling to make his strokes as fine and detailed as Keith’s while they paint the same tree-backed meadow speckled with wildflowers. They hike under the towering boughs of giant sequoias and stroll through the Hoh Rainforest with Nova on a leash, their fingers woven together as they clear miles of trail. In Wrangell-St. Elias, Shiro arranges for them to meet a team of sled dogs and try their hand and mushing them across the snowy expanse. And in Death Valley, they stargaze at glittering nighttime skies that remind Keith of roaming the Sonoran Desert with his father so many years ago.

Keith makes his own plans for them, too. For the anniversary of their first date, he arranges lessons for them to both start working on getting their private pilot lessons. Flying has always been a dream of his own, since Keith was a scrawny eight-year-old getting a thrill from jumping from the bed of his dad’s pickup and taking his bike off of homemade ramps. He’d spent years racing, gliding, falling in skydives, always a fan of anything that allowed him to soar fast and free. And for Shiro, it’s an old dream; one that had slipped sideways, yanked out from under him when he crashed into tarmac and packed earth. Keith’s seen the way he still stares skyward, missing the same feeling that he himself is currently chasing.

Learning to fly is easier with Shiro at his side, helping him study for the written exam and encouraging him constantly as they log hours with the instructor. And Keith about thinks he could cry the first time Shiro takes the pilot’s seat again, lighting up as he goes through the pre-flight checklist and trades jokes with the instructor sitting beside him.

One practical exam and some twenty-thousand dollars later, they’re both licensed private pilots. And while it’s no experimental military jet, the small plane Keith buys suits them perfectly. It’s black and sleek and comfortable to fly, once Keith adjusts from the nimble two-seater he’d logged most of his training hours in. Their plane can seat up to six people, if they need it, but more often it’s just the two of them and Nova soaring over remote expanses barely ribboned with road, sprawling forests, and skimming along the rise of the Rockies. Shiro agrees: it’s even better than flying first-class.

Between their continent-crossing trips and all the usual eventfulness of running a thriving business, managing an expanding after-school program, working alongside Lotor to test the final prototype for the Sincline hoverbike, and keeping tightly knit to their friends and family, the seasons fly by. It seems like one week they’re dressing up for Lance’s Halloween party (as Power Rangers, red and black) and the next they’re weary from wrapping four dozen presents in one sitting.

And in all that time, the wedding slips to the back of Keith’s mind. Not quite forgotten— unimaginable, given that Shiro has a habit of taking him by the hand and pressing a kiss to his ring finger, his full lips soft over the dark metal heated warm by Keith’s flesh and blood— but so distant that it still feels like a formless dream. Like the thought of spring in the dead of winter, it’s something Keith knows is coming but can scarcely picture while two-feet of snow sits piled on the ground outside his family’s home.

Which is probably why Keith is blindsided when he stops by the bakery after a morning spent fixing Pidge’s lime-green scooter and finds himself immediately crushed in a set of burly arms, frantic murmuring about _the wedding_ filling his ears.

It takes a moment, but Keith registers the crushing grip and sniffling mutters as belonging to Hunk. Confusion keeps him muddled as the larger man gently sways him side to side, the toes of his boots just brushing the tile flooring of the hallway that leads from the kitchen to the back entrance. “Easy there, big guy. What’s up?”

“I asked if he’d do our cake for the wedding,” Shiro says from the kitchen door, his smile crooked and the slightest bit flummoxed. “He’s been like this for ten minutes. Ryan had to take over decorating the petit fours.”

“You two have made me the happiest man on earth,” Hunk sniffs loudly in Keith’s ear. At last, he releases Keith— only to grip him by the shoulders and hold him at arm’s length, face screwed up with uncorked emotion. “Whew. Sorry. I’m just… I’m honored and— oh, shit, I’m already crying again.”

“Oh,” Keith says, floundering for a response to the emotional outpouring. He looks over Hunk’s shoulder toward Shiro, who gives him a little shrug. “Is this a good time to mention that I was hoping you’d be my best man?” Keith asks.

This time, he’s prepared for the incoming hug. Keith raises his arms high and then settles them on Hunk’s broad shoulders as he’s swooped up and spun around in a few enthusiastic circles.

“Yes! A thousand times, yes!” Hunk sets Keith down with care and wipes at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I really am touched, you guys. This is… wow. I’m gonna make you the best cake you’ve ever seen. It’s going to be the most delicious wedding in the universe.”

“I fully believe that,” Shiro says, grey eyes suddenly settling on Keith. “Which reminds me that we still need to divy people up for my half and your half of the wedding party.”

“If you get Matt, then I get Pidge,” Keith insists. It’s safer to split up the Holts, honestly. “And I get Hunk.”

“Wait, why do you get Hunk?” Shiro asks, brows furrowing as he leans one-armed against the counter. Behind him, Hunk cradles a bowl of egg whites to his chest and whips them hard, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

“Because he’s my best man, Shiro,” Keith reminds him. “He’s gonna plan my bachelor party.”

“Oh. Right. That’s fair.” Shiro brushes his knuckles back and forth under his chin, thoughtful. “Allura’s my best lady, obviously. And, uh… I’ll take Lance—”

“Thank you,” Keith interjects, getting a snort out of Shiro. He breaks into a smile a moment after, fondly poking at his fiancé’s belly as he makes a beeline to the petit fours, focus narrowed to the pretty red velvet ones Ryan’s already finished decorating. “Do you want Lotor?”

Shiro hums. “I’m pretty sure he’d rather be with you, Keith. And I really don’t want to spend my bachelor party watching him and Lance peacocking for Allura.”

“Fair enough,” Keith agrees, grimacing at the thought. He pops a petit four into his mouth and chomps away, hungry despite the big breakfast Shiro had made for him this morning. “Coran’ll want to go with you and Allura. And I’ll take Romelle. And Regris.”

“So, bachelor party,” Hunk says, leaning onto the counter on his elbows. “You, me, Pidge, Lotor, Romelle, and Regris. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool. Any preferences on how we should celebrate?”

“Surprise me,” Keith says around a mouthful of red velvet, trusting Hunk to treat him right. He manages to cram down five more petit fours before Ryan and Hunk finally shoo him away from the sweets and out of the kitchen. Shiro consoles him with a kiss on his way to the office to pay some bills, along with a small tray of cream puffs and a pat on the butt.

* * *

The save-the-dates go out, and then the invites. There are still final fittings for their tuxedos, gift favors to buy, and the wedding shower that Keith’s family insists on throwing for them. And probably a thousand other fussy little details that Keith never has to see, thanks to Allura and Shiro fastidiously managing every aspect of the wedding.

Every passing week slips by faster, until suddenly they’re seven days out. _Bachelor Day_ , as it’s been marked on Shiro’s master calendar for the past three months, the letters penned in Allura’s flowy pink hand.

The bakery is closed. Nova is spending the day hiking with his mom and uncles. And he and Shiro have only just finished a late breakfast of lingonberry crepes and soft boiled eggs when Allura arrives to whisk them both downstairs for whatever it is she and Hunk have planned.

In the ritzy lobby downstairs, Keith kisses Shiro goodbye for a perfectly reasonable length of time with an absolutely appropriate amount of tongue. Everyone complains anyway, and then they’re each shuffled into separate limousines with separate destinations.

“Text me when you get there safe!” Shiro calls out before Matt pushes his head down into the limo.

“No! No texting each other!” Lance immediately refutes, confiscating Shiro’s phone and tossing it to Matt. “You’re _bachelors_ today, remember?”

Keith sighs as he feels Hunk’s hand on his back, subtly nudging him toward the limo. He’s excited to spend the day with his friends— with his best man— but there will forever be a Shiro-shaped hole in his life when the man isn’t by his side.

The limo is dark and cool with the steady pump of the air conditioning. Keith draws one of his feet up onto the seat with him, nudging Lotor and Pidge aside until his awkward sitting habit is accommodated, and then smiles as Hunk hands him a beer.

“So, in addition to a moderate supply of alcohol, I have plenty of water and sports drinks in the cooler. In this kit,” Hunk continues, patting an insulated yellow lunch bag, “I have ibuprofen, dramamine, sunscreen, a first aid kit, you name it. Keith, I even brought your gym bag so you have a change of clothes if you need it.”

“Did you bring Keith a stripper, too?” Pidge asks.

“Uh, no. The only person Keith wants to see strip is Shiro,” Hunk snorts, “and he already gets that whenever he wants. Today is about doing fun stuff with your bros. Right?”

A large fist gently bumps Keith’s bicep and he cracks a smile, lips still pressed to the glass rim of his bottle. “Definitely.”

They start with racing dune buggies through the barren terrain west of the city, sweat plastering down Keith’s hair under his helmet, and he can think of few activities that he’d rather do on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Afterward, Hunk serves an expertly packed picnic lunch, eaten atop a small, shady bluff overlooking the plains. From there, they’re ushered back into the limo and carted to a medieval theme park that Keith is sure he’s heard Shiro mention before; he marvels over the costumes and dragon balloons, eats smoked turkey legs and chugs mead, and spends a tidy three-thousand dollars on a red-pommeled broadsword with a lion hewn in the hilt.

The sun’s set and the stars have risen by the time the limo pulls into a dimly lit parking lot somewhere downtown, near a massive and nondescript building. Keith is still a little woozy as he steps out of the limo, many hands reaching out to steady him as he lists to one side.

He turns in Lotor’s loose grasp to get his bearings, squinting up at flashing neon letters that spell out UNILU LASER. The rest of the signage wraps around the corner. A few cars sit parked near the entrance, and other than that there’s only a long white limousine rolling to a stop across the lot.

 _Wait_. A limo. A _white_ limo, like Shiro’s. The limousine with Shiro in it. And there are people getting out of it, and maybe one of them is—

“Shiro?” Keith calls out, a reedy cry in the dark.

There’s a beat filled with the sound of late night interstate traffic as one of the figures by the white limousine across the parking lot turns toward him.

“Keith?” The voice is distant and slightly confused and _Shiro for sure_ , and that’s enough to send Keith stumbling in his direction.

“Shirooo!” He takes off through the empty parking lot at a jello-legged jog, ignoring Hunk’s sigh and Pidge’s gleeful crow of, “Oh, I have to get this on video.”

“Keith!” Shiro weaves his way toward him, not making much progress as he struggles to keep his balance. The painted lines of the parking lot seem to be throwing him a little.

But it’s okay. Keith makes up the difference, closing the gap between them and stumbling straight into his fiancé’s arms. “Shiro, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Shiro says, squeezing him tight. He smells like seasalt and cucumber, with the fruity sweetness of pina coladas lingering on his breath. Glitter dusts his hair and freckles his skin, sparkling under the ugly parking lot lighting. And there’s languid, careless openness in his touch as his palm slides down to the small of Keith’s back, pressing him impossibly close.

“Oh my god,” Lance groans somewhere behind them. “It was _one_ day.”

“We were going to have you two meet once we got inside,” Hunk says as the rest of Keith’s party arrives, sounding only a little disappointed in the timing of their intended surprise going sideways. “My bad. I should’ve anticipated Keith’s Shiro-vision kicking in, drunk or not.”

“It’s quite alright,” Allura says, waving it off. She’s all indulgence as she looks at her best friend and Keith, wrapped around each other as they are. “Hunk and I wanted to give you both the best night possible, and our inevitable conclusion—”

“Was that you two want to be like this,” Hunk says, holding up two fingers twined tight together. “Looks like we made the right call.”

“You’re amazing,” Shiro says, the edges of his words slurring. He squeezes Keith tighter, as if that will help keep the choked down emotion in his voice from escaping him in full. “I love him. Thank you.”

“And I love you,” Keith says, beckoning Allura closer. And Hunk, too. The hug that began with him and Shiro quickly turns into a squish of bodies that has him flush against Shiro’s front, which happens to be Keith’s most favorite place in the universe.

Amid lots of back-patting and soft laughter, the hug eventually breaks apart around them. But as their combined party slowly peels off toward the grey-walled building in little clusters, swapping stories about their respective Bachelor Day experiences, Keith and Shiro linger.

It shouldn’t feel so romantic, swaying beside a parking lot light pole with the rush of interstate traffic filling the starless night. But with Shiro, even the mundane turns magical.

“What’d you do today?” Keith asks, his nose turned into the other man’s cheek, bottom lip catching along his square jaw.

With a hum, Shiro smiles and holds up his fingers one by one, long pauses interspersed throughout as he ticks through the day’s events. “Roller coasters, fancy lunch, spa facials and a massage, dinner and dessert at the farmer’s market, and now here. With you. My _fiancé_.” His hands cup around Keith’s face a little unevenly, whole body a hair off-kilter, but the warmth in his eyes is unwavering. “Oh, and we had some drinks.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Keith says, grinning lopsided as Shiro kisses him on the side of his nose, impulsive and clumsy.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers against his cheek, voice deep and husky as he nuzzles into skin kissed with dirt and sweat and smoke, “I got you _the_ most gorgeous cantaloupe from the farmer’s market. It’s in the— don’t let me forget. It’s in the limo.”

“Cantaloupe’s my favorite melon,” Keith says before stretching up on his tiptoes to kiss Shiro again, stifling his fiancé’s mumbled, _“I know, baby.”_

Grey eyes brighten as Shiro thumbs at the petals of Keith’s flower crown— a souvenir Romelle picked out for him at the renaissance park— and feels his way along the messy plait that runs down his nape.

Keith blows out a stream of air and recounts everything that comes to mind, mead making his tongue loose and his body smolder under the skin. All the while, something only half-remembered sits at the back of his thoughts. Something important, something he’s forgetting to tell Shiro while he rambles about rhubarb pie and the way Lotor’s hair got all frizzy from his dune buggy’s vinyl seating.

“A sword!” Keith exclaims as soon as it hits him, a finger pointed into Shiro’s chest. “I bought a sword. And it’s a nice one.”

“Does it complete the prince charming look?”

Keith snorts softly. He is a mess, smudged with dusty earth and forge smoke and dried sweat. Every tilt of his head and brush of Shiro’s hands causes loose strands of his hair fall across his face and curl around his jaw. “Do I look like prince charming to you?”

“Yes.” Shiro’s cheeks go even ruddier than the telltale flush of the alcohol already in his system.

Keith’s stammering response is mercifully cut short by Matt and Pidge whooping and hollering for them to get their asses to the door.

With a devastatingly handsome smile, Shiro takes his hand and draws it to his lips, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it; after, he offers Keith his crooked arm to hold onto, like he really is some prince in need of escorting. It’s awfully smooth for a man drunk off of three pina coladas, _max_ , Keith thinks, until Shiro immediately stumbles over a yellow-painted parking block and it’s only Keith’s steadfast hold that keeps his fiancé from face-planting on the asphalt.

Closer to the front, Keith can see the rest of the neon-lit sign spell out: UNILU LASER COMBAT AND FUN EMPORIUM. They’re ushered in by an impatient Matt and Pidge, both of them crowing loudly about how the whole place has been rented out just for them. The rest of their friends all stand waiting in the lobby, mingling and laughing, until he and Shiro enter.

There’s a lot of teasing as they’re slowly coaxed apart, pulled toward their respective parties-turned-laser tag teams. Keith, finally able to have an hold Shiro for the first time in ten or twelve hours, is reluctant to just let him go. “Why can’t Shiro and I be our own team?”

“Because you’d just end up crawling off somewhere and making out,” Lance complains, which is—

Fair. That’s fair. He’s not wrong, and Keith’s frown intensifies at the thought of Lance understanding him well enough to make such an accurate assumption.

“C’mon, Keith. It’ll be fun! A little friendly competition never hurt anyone,” Shiro says, ever ready to placate him. He leans down and kisses Keith on the cheek before nuzzling his nose along the shell of his ear, voice pitched low and whisperingly quiet as he tacks on, “And I’m gonna take you down, baby.”

The challenge sparks something keen and hungry in Keith, same as their nights in the gym that devolve into contests of who can keep the other pinned. He gives Shiro a light shove that lands somewhere between playful and challenging, resisting the urge to smile as he takes an unsteady step backward. “I’d _love_ to see you try.”

In separate starting zones, they put on light-up vests that’ll track each hit they take. Three shots and you’re dead— and Keith intends on being the one to deliver each of Shiro’s three strikes.

“Keith, buddy! The man of the hour! Our fearless leader,” Hunk says while zipping up his vest. Behind him, Romelle and Regris are practicing silent hand-signals, which are undermined by their constant giggling. “Any inspiring words for us?”

“Uh… no one touches Shiro. He’s mine.” Keith picks a small laser gun styled after a compact little pistol; it fits well in his hand. “And try not to get hit, I guess.”

“Whoo. Way to rally the troops,” Pidge deadpans, still rosy-cheeked from alcoholic root beer. Beside her, Lotor poorly conceals a snorting laugh behind the back of his hand.

“If we win, I’ll take everyone out for ice cream,” Keith sighs, pulling from the playbook he remembers his exasperated father using on his little league team halfway through a dismal season. As a petty afterthought, he adds, “And five-hundred bucks to whoever gets a hit in on Lance.”

* * *

In the last days leading up to the wedding, Shiro’s stress manifests in burned waffles and a worryingly excessive use of smiley emoji in his group chat texts. Allura seems to handle the increasing desperation of the wedding deadline better, although every time Keith sees her she’s double-fisting iced coffees.

It’s a lot to bring together, regardless of Shiro and Allura’s fastidious planning, with plenty of room for things to go awry. That much is clear on the way to the airport, Shiro massaging his temples as the hotel insists they don’t have any reservations under the names Shirogane or Marmora.

“They could always stay in my old room at my family’s place,” Keith consoles as Shiro waits on hold for the third time, staring out the sunroof. “Although… I’m a little scared of leaving my mom and Tomomi alone together.”

“You think they wouldn’t get along?”

“The opposite,” Keith murmurs, sighing at the thought of coming home to find the walls plastered in pictures of himself. “You know they’d probably love to swap embarrassing stories about us as kids.”

Shiro laughs, smiling to himself until the moment the hotel manager comes back on the line.

The back-and-forth over the phone continues right up until Naoto and Tomomi’s plane lands, Shiro flashing Keith a dryly triumphant look as someone on the other end of the line apologizes for the misunderstanding and assures that their suite will be ready.

It’s a little bit of a relief. Keith has high hopes that their families will get along— and few reasons to doubt that they will— but he’d rather they meet and get to know each other at the wedding than through sudden and unexpected cohabitation.

And this time, as Naoto and Tomomi hustle through the last security barrier with their arms already outstretched, Keith is spared none of their affection. A sweeping hug catches him and Shiro both, folding them tight against each other’s sides as the Shiroganes do their best to sandwich them together. Shiro’s grandfather and aunt stumble over each other in their rush to congratulate the soon-to-be-newlyweds and admire Keith’s grown-out hair.

“Valerie couldn’t take today off, so she’ll fly in tomorrow,” Tomomi says, prompting a minutes-long argument between her and Shiro over who will wake up at five a.m. to come pick up her girlfriend.

Keith shoulders Naoto’s bag, blinks at the ongoing debate, and then turns to Shiro’s grandfather, who offers him a little shrug. “So, how was the flight?”

“ _First class_ ,” Naoto says, shades of Shiro in his gleeful whisper. “It was wonderful! Thank you, Keith. So much leg room. And _the seats_. Oh! Here, I showed pictures of you two to the flight attendants and they gave me some extra snacks,” he adds, rifling through his coat pockets to hand them each a paper wrapped cookie.

Keith’s appreciative, “Cool, thanks,” is drowned out by Shiro’s mortified, “Pictures? Of us?”

“He bragged about the two of you the whole flight,” Tomomi says, yawning wide and popping her shoulders. “Showed off the bakery and Nova and the engagement pics to anyone who’d look at his phone.”

“Everyone agreed you make a very handsome couple,” Naoto adds, beaming.

* * *

The rehearsal dinner passes in a blur of sweet and teasing toasts, with good food, ample dessert, and generous wine service.

In the same grey suit he wore to Keith’s graduation, Kolivan factually restates the history of his nephew’s relationship with Shiro, sparing no detail; Antok doubles over and pounds the table when his husband gets to the part about catching them in the garage together, red-faced.

With a hand gently squeezed around Keith’s shoulder, Krolia talks of how overjoyed his father would be to see him today, happy and in love, and of how proud she is of the both of them. Before Keith even registers the tears welling along his bottom lashes, he feels Shiro press something soft and smooth into his hand, under the table— the silvery-grey silk square from his breast pocket, Keith realizes, as he tries to subtly blot at his eyes.

Keith can see the thickness of Shiro’s swallow as his grandfather and aunt take their turns speaking, but his smile doesn’t waver.

One after another, their friends make little speeches, too. Allura toasts to them both as wonderful friends and wishes them the best, a picture of poise and elegance, while Hunk starts crying halfway through his three page speech and has to take a seat. Coran, their officiant, reads a flowery ode to their love that he penned himself. Pidge and Matt, of course, are the ones to tease them with a few anecdotes of just how obviously and sickeningly they’d been in love. And Lance, surprisingly, gives one of the best speeches of the night.

It includes a visual component— a large poster of Shiro’s old bakery truck, janky and questionably painted, before it went to that big car baler in the sky— and a sincere argument that only true love could bring two people together in spite of a monstrosity like this.

And after all the food and leftover wine have been sent home with their friends and family, after they’ve said their goodbyes, after they ride home in the dark of night, settled close in the backseat...

Keith catches hold of Shiro and doesn’t let go. They’re linked by the hand as they slide through the door to their apartment, Keith ignoring Nova’s excited whining as he presses Shiro into the entryway wall and crowds into his space. The air around him is warmer, heavier— sweeter, too, delicate with the scent of Shiro’s honeyed shampoo and sugar scrubs and whatever else Keith bought him the last time they went shopping.

Keith plasters himself against the tall, broad temptation of Shiro’s front, levering himself up on tiptoes to kiss the man who’ll soon be his husband hard and hungry. He’s deft as he unbuckles Shiro’s belt; impatient as he yanks it free of the loops and drops it to the floor. His hand slides under the fitted waistband so snug around Shiro’s taut belly.

“Mr. Marmora,” Shiro murmurs against his lips, gaze lowered under a thick fringe of lashes, “I’m scandalized. We aren’t even married yet.”

Keith grunts and noses at the jut of his jaw.

“Don’t leave any marks,” Shiro cautions, voice dipping low, its husky tones a rare treat. “I don’t want to be covered in hickeys for our wedding pictures.”

Keith rather likes the idea, though. At the moment, at least— hard and wanting and primally eager to prove just how surely Shiro is his. He fists his hand around the pretty pink silk of Shiro’s tie and draws him closer, breathing out a hum against bright, flushed skin. “What if we matched?”

Shiro is resolute even as he rolls his hips into Keith, unmoved by his husband-to-be’s batted lashes and sly pout. “Hm, still no,” he laughs under his breath, squirming as Keith licks against a ticklish spot under his ear. “Save it for the honeymoon.”

* * *

The next morning passes in a breathless blur, dreamily surreal until the moment Keith rounds the flowered arches just outside the ceremony hall.

Arm-in-arm with his mother, he straightens his spine and takes a tentative first step, nearly overwhelmed— by the rows and rows of family and friends lining the aisle, by Coran and their wedding party waiting at the altar, by the splendor of everything Shiro’d envisioned for them both. Keith’s veil is dark and delicately sheer, hand-stitched with tiny gold-thread stars and flecked with crystal, and he’s grateful for the sliver of cover it provides. The material is gauzy light where it brushes over his lips and around his jaw, and through it everything around him seems softened and unearthly— like evening come softly, a muted dusk.

Cello and violins play as they step onto the carpet of white petals layered over the intricate greystone tilework. The melody is mostly drowned out by his own loud, nervous breaths, deafening to his ears; his mom gives his forearm a gentle squeeze and keeps him marching forward.

Keith blinks hard and stares ahead, focused on taking deep breaths and quelling the tremble that shows in his white-knuckled fingertips as he clenches around the stems of his small bouquet.

At the altar, Hunk is already dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief as Keith takes his place beside his best man.

“Easy, big guy,” Keith whispers just under the resonant notes of the string quintet playing. There is sweat pooling under his extravagantly expensive tuxedo and turning his palms slick and clammy. He swallows a heavy knot in his throat and croaks, “Nothing’s even happened yet.”

“You just look so beautiful, Keith.” A faint sniffle follows, audible even over the violin and cello playing, and on Hunk’s other side Keith can just barely see Pidge rifling through her pockets for spare tissues.

Keith means to shake his head and sigh, but a glance down the aisle steals his breath away before it can leave his chest, the whole of him transfixed. The flow of time runs slow, like cooled honey binding him in place and

Escorted by his grandfather, Shiro makes his way down the aisle with a smile and a blush visible even through the white cast of his veil. It mirrors Keith’s, only its stars are stitched in silver and the brightly sparkling crystals are loosely arranged in the shapes of different constellations.

And he looks… _good_ in the sharp tailoring of his white tux, cut to fit perfectly snug across Shiro’s chest before nipping in tight around his trim waist. The lapels are a softly glossy satin that Keith can’t wait to lay his hands on, to grip as he tugs Shiro down to him for a kiss, to—

“Dude, you might want to close your mouth,” Hunk whispers amid a tiny ripple of giggles from the nearest rows— the witnesses to Keith’s utter rapture, and most of them his own family, for better or worse.

Keith snaps his gaping jaw shut and smiles as Shiro helps his grandfather to his seat and then ascends the few steps to stand at beside him at the altar.

The music ends. Between them, Coran clears his throat and cheerily welcomes everyone gathered, clearly enjoying his role as officiant.

And Keith... Keith can hardly spare a thought or care for anything but the man standing in front of him with calla lilies and forget-me-nots in hand. Energy thrums through him like a livewire, from heel to crown, burning Keith up with anticipation. He wants to kiss Shiro _now_ , wants to sign the marriage license and whisk his husband away to have him and hold him, never mind the reception and all their guests.

The soft and endlessly fond look in Shiro’s eyes begs patience, keenly aware of every little tell in Keith’s riled body. A tiny shift of an eyebrow and a miniscule tug at one corner of his mouth suggest he knows exactly what Keith is thinking.

A laugh ripples through their gathered guests at one of Coran’s remarks, and Keith makes an effort to start paying attention. With a delay of a few seconds, his brain oh-so-helpfully plays back the words he’d been too distracted to focus on. His cheeks redden at the realization it had been Coran observing the very same tension in him: “Well, I think if I ramble a minute longer, Keith’s going to grab the mic and declare himself and Shiro married without me.”

There’s still a lingering murmur of laughter as he and Shiro shuffle a step closer. Though their veils are gossamer-thin, Keith suddenly finds it too much barrier between himself and Shiro’s soft, serene smile; his warm grey eyes; all the features Keith knows and loves. If he’s going to spill his heart on the altar in front of Shiro and everyone, he wants to do it eye-to-eye.

It’s not the exact order they practiced at the rehearsal, but Keith clumsily takes the hem of Shiro’s pretty white veil and draws it back, on his tiptoes to set it just right. And before he can bother with his own, Shiro is lifting the dark, silk tulle and carefully arranging its drape over Keith’s flower-studded braid. Delicate petals brush along Keith’s jaw and under his chin as Shiro fusses over getting the veil just right.

Satisfied, they both grin and edge closer still, their faces bare and blushing. Their hands tangle together between them, the blooms of their bouquets mingling together in their joined hold. Allura had picked the flowers and arranged them herself. Where Shiro’s are all white and silver, Keith’s fingers tremble around red asters and chrysanthemums.

“It’s no secret how deeply Keith and Shiro love one another,” Coran says, a warm smile curling under his mustache. “And I’m sure it’s no surprise to anyone present that they wanted to write their own vows. Keith, would you like to lead?”

Keith nods, licks his lips, and murmurs a breathless little, “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”

The hall goes quiet as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the butterflies in his stomach rising to a fervor that nearly stops him opening his mouth again. But Shiro’s hands on his are the best kind of anchor, the surest reassurance, trembling soft where they fold around Keith and his bouquet.

“My life would be a whole lot different without you, Sh— T-Takashi,” Keith says, the scribbled and scratch covered speech in his tuxedo pocket forgotten as he holds onto Shiro with both hands. “You’re my closest friend. My guiding light. There’s no one in this or any other universe I’d rather spend the rest of my life with. No one I could love as hard as I love you. So I promise to protect you, Shiro. And to cherish you. And to eat all of your test-bakes, no matter how they come out. Forever.”

There’s another ripple of soft laughter throughout the hall; under it, Keith can hear a distinct sniffle from Hunk. Shiro himself smiles and gives a few furious blinks, the full fringe of his lashes glossy wet when he speaks.

“Keith,” Shiro says, all the weight of his affection rendering it low and gravelly, wistful even as he has Keith right in front of him. “My life changed when you found me in that rustbucket truck on the corner of Eighth and Pollux, and I couldn’t be more grateful. You believed in me, Keith. You’ve helped me make so many of my dreams reality, but the greatest one is this— taking my hand and letting me spend the rest of my life with you. There isn’t a future I can imagine without you in it, Keith, and me at your side. So I vow to love you and be worthy of your love in return, to care for you in sickness and in health, to make your world as bright as you’ve made mine,” he finishes with a wavering smile.

As the first fat tear finally slips down his cheek, Keith almost misses the cover of his veil. Standing on a dais and crying in front of everyone he knows was never part of his wedding plan. But the hands around his give a squeeze, all unspoken comfort, and Keith smiles through the rest that fall.

They bend together to collect the wedding rings from the little basket that Nova carries over, both of them rubbing her around the ears before she obediently trots back to Krolia and a very red-eyed Thace.

They’re custom-made and complementary— a gold band for himself and platinum for Shiro. His name is engraved along the inside of Shiro’s ring, a reminder to keep him near no matter how long or how far they’re apart. Haltingly, Keith slides the wedding band up Shiro’s ring finger, swallowing deep when at last it fits snug and perfect.

Shiro is steadier as he takes Keith’s hand and slides the smaller band up his slender finger. Even with its satin finish, the ring gleams warm and jewel-bright. Against his fevered skin, Keith even thinks he can feel the faintest impression of Shiro’s engraven name.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husbands for life,” Coran announces, teary-eyed as he beams at the both of them. “Shiro, Keith, you may now seal your marriage vows with a kiss!”

Kept too long waiting, Keith rises up on his toes and meets Shiro halfway. The weight in the air vanishes the moment their lips meet, all the pomp and ceremony of the wedding dissolving into an outburst of applause and confetti poppers from their friends and closest family.

“The newlyweds!” Coran cheers, voice nearly swallowed up in the din of Lance’s screams, Hunk’s loud sobs, Pidge and Matt’s boisterous cries for Shiro to give his husband some sugar.

And Shiro kisses him once, twice, and then dips him for a third one that lingers until Keith can hear his family going _absolutely apeshit_ in the front rows, his mother’s whooping encouragement audible even over Antok’s thunderous clapping.

Even if Keith had spent years dreaming of his wedding— if it had ever occurred to him to hope for someone he loved enough to chase across town or across the universe, whichever was required of him— he could never have pictured it happening like _this_.

And he loves every moment of it.

* * *

They manage to wait until after the photos are done and they’re safely tucked in the back of the sleek towncar before frantically making out on their way to the reception, their immaculate tuxedos rumpling and their bowties yanked askew. And then they spend ten minutes putting themselves back together, with Shiro gingerly picking confetti and grains of rice out of Keith’s hair, careful not to disturb the elegant plaits and the flowers woven through them.

The last time Keith laid eyes on the reception venue, it was empty and undecorated, its arched ceilings and ballroom bare. But as Shiro sweeps him in before their guests arrive, he finds it transformed.

The sun hasn’t yet set, but inside the hall it’s nighttime. Sheer silk curtains of mauve and rich violet ripple against the walls and cover the windows, tinting whatever light filters in. Fresh jasmine and fairy lights twine around columns and up archways, like a garden after nightfall, all the way to the ballroom itself.

Keith laughs when he sees the ice sculptures flanking the entrance, knowing it must’ve pained Allura to go along with Shiro’s heart’s desire. One one side sits a beluga whale, one of Shiro’s favorite animals, in all its wet, blobby glory. And on the other side is a hippo, carved by a hand determined to make the animal look noble and triumphant.

“Allura was really pulling for lions or swans or something more refined, but… I thought you’d like a hippo.”

“It’s _perfect_ , Shiro. Hang on,” Keith says, pulling out his camera to take a picture of the ice-carved hippo, and then the beluga whale, and then Shiro standing proudly beside it, prosthetic hand holding its flipper.

“So,” Shiro drawls, donning an expectant smile as he cocks his head to one side, “did I do a good job?”

Keith tries not to smile and fails spectacularly. “More than that, Shiro. It’s… everything is amazing. Magical. It’s like a fairytale. And not the Shrek version, either.”

Shiro’s look is hopelessly fond, his hands fitted snug around the narrowness of Keith’s waist. He winks as he takes up one of Keith’s hands and starts them in a slow, waltzing step around the empty reception hall. “Not that you’d have had a problem with it if it was, right?”

“Nope,” Keith agrees, his grin cheeky. He never quite picked up the steps in any of Allura’s ballroom dance lessons, but following Shiro’s lead makes it easy.

Held in his husband’s arms— and it’s the first time Keith’s thought it like that, a warm thrill suffusing every inch of him— it’s a little like dancing on air. He sighs as he’s dipped low, mesmerized by the twinkling lights that speckle the domed, midnight blue ceiling above them. Every lift is effortless, Shiro twirling them both around while Keith breathes out giddy laughter in his ear.

And it’s even better with no one watching, Shiro and himself basking under a nighttime made just for them.

Keith is still twirling around in Shiro’s arms when the first guests start to trickle in. Arm in arm, they trot to the doors to welcome everyone to the reception.

Keith’s arm nearly aches from handshakes, his cheeks bright from kisses from family and friends. Antok picks them both up in a hug that has their nice dress shoes dangling a foot off of the ground; Krolia laughs warmly as she sweeps them into a gentler hug, with Naoto, Tomomi, and Valerie right on her heels.

“Thought I got all the rice out of your hair in the car,” Shiro comments as the hall behind them buzzes with conversation, most of their guests settling in. He picks at the plaits of Keith’s braid for a moment before dropping a few long grains into his empty champagne glass.

“Are the flowers still okay?” Keith asks, gingerly patting at the coiled hair he can’t see. The elegant braid and its carefully woven-in flowers had taken Allura and Romelle over an hour to do.

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re beautiful,” Shiro says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just like a certain someone.”

“Oh? Who?” Keith asks, feigning ignorance as he inhales five mini-quiches from a nearby hors d'oeuvres platter.

“My husband. Maybe you’ve seen him?” Shiro answers, positively glowing as he smiles down at Keith. “Five-foot-eight, monstrous sweet tooth, looks killer in a tux. I mean, like… _red carpet_ good. Movie star good. Could-be-a-model good.”

Keith blushes deep even as he keeps a straight face. “What a coincidence. Sounds an awful lot like _my_ husband,” he murmurs while straightening up the satin-soft lapels of Shiro’s suit. “Only he’s a little bit taller.”

Dinner is elegant, extravagant, and well worth whatever he paid for it. Keith enjoys his perfectly seared steak and peppered vegetables, chewing through his smile as he overhears Shiro politely requesting a personal platter of macaroni from one of the servers. Their guests seem just as pleased with the generous meal, and none more than the Marmora clan. There are growing stacks of empty plates where Antok and his relations sit, and Keith might me worried if not for Shiro’s immediate assurance that he’d anticipated feeding a small army.

And at the center of every dining table sits an elaborate ring of wedding bread painstakingly decorated with roses, twined vines, and happy pairs of doves.

The one in front of Shiro and Keith is the most lavishly decorated of them all, and Hunk takes great pride in pointing out the symbolism of every little knot and flower in the dough. At its top sits a large, plump, dove with a silverleaf wing and a smaller, darker-baked songbird with a mop of feathery hair, their wings extended around each other.

“That’s you two,” Hunk points out, chest puffing proudly as they marvel over the intricately detailed work. “In bird form.”

Keith’s face screws up tight as he snaps a dozen pictures of the korovai, zooming in close on the rotund bird-Shiro and tiny bird-Keith perched on top. They’re probably the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, so perfect that he wants nothing more than to cup them up and whisk them home to join the hippo still sitting in their freezer, but Keith refuses to be moved to tears at his wedding a second time— and over bread, of all things.

After dinner ends, they walk arm-in-arm to the floor at the center of the ballroom to take the first dance. Keith recognizes the sweet, sultry tune from lazy mornings spent watching Shiro sway his hips as he fixed breakfast. And just like before, it’s easy to fall into step and follow Shiro’s lead across the fairy light-strewn dancefloor.

He could easily stay in Shiro’s arms until dawn, starstruck as his husband sweeps him off his feet, but there’s a line ready to dance with each of them. Keith lets his mom lead him around next, cheeks aching under a persistent smile as she whistles low and gives keith a knowing look at the sight of Shiro expertly spinning Allura around the floor.

“I know you two are going to be very happy together,” she says before handing him off to his uncle, leaving Keith with a kiss on his forehead.

After Kolivan, Keith finds himself partnered with Hunk, a perfect gentleman; then Allura, who frets endlessly over his braid and its wilting flowers; and then Matt and Pidge, who sandwich themselves around him while dancing like they’re at a rave. And Keith finds himself holding onto Lance, who grumbles every time Lotor and Allura waltz past them but otherwise makes a surprisingly good dance partner.

But no one is better than Shiro, of course.

They dance until the music fades and Coran ushers everyone over toward the table with the cake. Standing before it hand-in-hand, Keith and Shiro stare in awe.

It’s five beautiful tiers, glazed with deep blues and dark violets, ribboned with vibrant magenta and stellar cyan. A silvery shimmer like the Milky Way runs down one side, and tiny flecks of edible gold and silver dot its glossy surface like stars. Sitting at the very top, lovingly fashioned out of fondant, stand miniatures of the two of them. And Nova, too, seated by their feet with her tongue lolling out.

“Hunk, you outdid yourself,” Shiro breathes, eyes wide as he stares up at the tiny version of himself, accurate down to the scar across his nose and the clean fade of his fresh new haircut.

“This is beyond amazing!” Keith agrees, finding his reflection almost mirrored in the darkness of the perfectly smooth glaze. “It’s— I mean, can we even eat this?”

“I didn’t create five uniquely flavored tiers for this cake to not be eaten,” Hunk says, hands thrown high.

They make the first slice together, holding tight to a ceremonial knife that Kolivan had offered them just for this purpose. The bottom tier is richly swirled with strawberry, the sponge moist and lemony golden under a perfect layer of glaze-coated whipped cream.

Keith bites off more than he can chew as Shiro feeds him a slice, his laughter stifled by a full mouth as starry glaze dots his nose and silky whipped cream clings above his lip like a moustache. Shiro’s left no better, a long streak of silver-flecked glaze all the way up his cheek, crumbs down the front of his white tux, and strawberry filling sticky around his lips. It only gets messier when they kiss again, Keith’s hands still covered in frosting where they fist in the expensive fabric of Shiro’s suit.

After the cake, the party winds down. Keith sits comfortably in Shiro’s lap while they sample each of the five tiers and pretends to not notice Lance sneaking out of the reception hall with an entire platter of cocktail shrimp.

Keith sighs and sinks heavily into Shiro, content and exhausted in the best of ways. He steals sips of his husband’s champagne and watches as their wedding celebration dies down to warm, comfortable embers. There are still a few people dancing together in the middle of the ballroom, under the twinkling starscape dome, and maybe a dozen more hanging around to polish off the hors d'oeuvres as they talk.

“I love you,” Shiro answers, nose buried in the flower-studded coif of Keith’s hair as he presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Love you,” Keith echoes back, never tired of hearing those words out of Shiro’s mouth. “And I love what you did, Shiro. All this, under the stars,” he explains, glancing up at the fairy lights against the backdrop of purpled silks. “Very romantic.”

Shiro exudes pleased contentment, well-fed on both the praise and Keith’s happiness. “Thank you, baby. I thought it’d be a nice prelude to the honeymoon.”

“The honeymoon,” Keith purrs, fingertips toying with the buttons down the front of Shiro’s dress shirt. Their suit jackets and bowties sit draped on a nearby chair, nearly forgotten. “You never did tell me where we’re going.”

“Wanted to surprise you,” Shiro says, a tiny, wry smile curving his lips. “The arrangements are all taken care of, though. Don’t worry.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Keith tells him. His hand finds its usual place cupped around Shiro’s jaw, thumb affectionately brushing at his bottom lip. “All I require to be happy is having you all to myself in a hotel with decent room service for a minimum of ten days.”

“Well, there’s no room service where we’re going,” Shiro says, lip showing the faintest pout. “And no hotel. But I _did_ get us a fully-stocked luxury cabin in Yellowstone for two weeks, so…”

“That’s— fuck, Shiro, that’s even better,” Keith grins, rocking forward to catch Shiro in a kiss drawn deep and indulgently slow. The sweetness of sugar and icing still lingers on Shiro’s lips in traces so faint that someone less familiar with his taste might miss them. Not Keith, though. “Please don’t be upset if I ignore your itinerary and keep you in bed for the first week.”

Shiro’s laughter bubbles out as bright as the champagne they’ve been downing, as warm as the color on his cheeks. Keith rests his forehead against Shiro’s, bumping their noses together, and opens his eyes to perfect rings of darkened grey fixed on him, pupils dark and reflective under the starry string lights.

“I’d actually… that’s pretty much what I was counting on,” Shiro admits with a sly quirk of his lips, lashes fluttering as he glances down to where Keith still sits perched in his lap. A hand settles at the top of one strong and slender thigh, metal fingers strumming over the finely textured material of dark tuxedo pants. “No plans this time. Just you and me.”

The look Shiro gives him leaves Keith tipsier than the celebratory champagne; hotter under the skin, too, a smoldering blush curling its way up the back of his neck to crest at his ears. It’s tempered by an intimate, conspiratorial little smile— one that Keith mirrors back, giddy with anticipation to start the rest of his life with Shiro— and then they both break into breathy laughter.

Keith tilts his head and poises his lips just over Shiro’s, close enough to brush against petal-soft, sugar-sweetened skin with every word. “Sounds like the perfect beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins the never-ending honeymoon phase! Thank you for sticking thru this with me.  
> And please check out this   
> [AMAZING WEDDING ART by Shino/rainlikestars !!!!!!!!!!!](https://twitter.com/rainlikestars/status/1124753684905152513)
> 
> I'm on twitter [@neyasochi](https://twitter.com/neyasochi) and you can read some extra stuff about this AU [here!](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1122639884655759360)


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